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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28788759">For Only The Strongest Shall Rule</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carasynthia_Lune/pseuds/The_Kittylorian'>The_Kittylorian (Carasynthia_Lune)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Children of the Watch, Din Djarin's Past, Eventual Canon Divergence, Eventual Relationships, Father-Child Relationships, Flashbacks, Force-Sensitive Din Djarin, Gen, Headcanon, Jedi Training (Star Wars), ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Protectors, MandoVerse, Mand’alor Din Djarin, Old Republic (mentioned), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Din Djarin, Protective Grogu | Baby Yoda, References to Star Wars Legends, Slow Build, Some made up mando lore, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), The slow build is strong with this one, putting war in star wars (again)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:08:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>85,818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28788759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carasynthia_Lune/pseuds/The_Kittylorian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The prologue begins at midpoint: Din Djarin is the Mand’alor, and has been for over a year. How he had gotten to that juncture and what happens thereafter are a plethora of events which challenge not only how he views the galaxy, but how the galaxy views him—as well as his foundling son, whose power grows ever stronger. Winning the Darksaber is one thing. But keeping it? The moment he’d won the Darksaber from Moff Gideon merely marked the beginning of his worries, and every decision he makes can either build or destroy himself, the future of Mandalore, and his very bond with Grogu.</p><p>—Or, Season 1 and 2 was about the galaxy taking Din and Grogu for a ride, so this self-indulgent, wish-fulfillment (lolz) "Season 3" onwards would be about Din and Grogu taking the galaxy for a ride!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>330</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Summary slightly edited as of 03/31. I’ve also decided to include character and subject tags which would make their appearance in later chapters, so don’t despair (!!) if you see a character tag, subject tag, etc. which aren’t apparent in the fic yet. They’ll eventually find their way in, so hold on tight!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Mand'alor Din Djarin and his Protectors together face one of the toughest challenges so far since reclaiming Mandalore, first through the eyes of his youngest Mandalorian Protector, 17-year-old Emon Krers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, here I am with another fic! And yes, the title is based on what Pre Vizsla said before Maul made some heads roll. The idea of this story began with an image of Din holding a fast-asleep Grogu in his throne room on Mandalore as Mand'alor, and then the monster birthed more plot bunnies. Please enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">
  <strong>Prologue</strong>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>The planet of Mandalore, 11 ABY</em>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p2">Emon Krers, Mandalorian warrior and only seventeen years of age, earnestly wondered at how it had all come to <em>this</em>.</p>
<p class="p2">It was a sight he thought he’d never see in his young lifetime. He also knew that he may never drink in such a sight again—and it was a glorious, yet very <em>unlikely </em>sight.</p>
<p class="p2">There he was: the beloved Mand’alor which he served under for nearly over a year. This once-strange man with dark eyes known as Din Djarin, ex-bounty hounter and former Child of the Watch, stood just a few steps away from his throne, which was engineered from beskar and the finest, toughest glass.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon noted how the Mand’alor aged since the first time he saw him, but not tremendously so—the man was barely forty years old, yet silver began sprouting among the strands of his lush dark hair, and a few more wrinkles laid on his forehead and around his eyes. His skin had notably tanned as well from the times he had kept his helmet off to see his fellow soldiers eye to eye. A year prior, the Mand’alor had never removed his helmet openly in front of any living thing, and certainly not under the fiery sky of Mandalore. There were small scars on his skin where shrapnel had sliced through in those times he kept his helmet off, bare and unprotected when heated incidents happened. The tiny, ragged nicks were stark against the now golden tan of his face.</p>
<p class="p2">What made the sight truly extraordinary, however, was the small bundle which the Mand’alor cradled in his arms as he spoke, without missing a beat. Emon barely heard the Mand’alor’s words in that instant—quite irresponsibily so, as his mind needed to be present at all times—because he found himself gazing intently at the small, sleeping bundle.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon was one of the Protectors; moreso, he was part of the main unit which was always by the Mand’alor’s side. He stood some paces away from the Mand’alor, where the sole ruler was still well within his view. The little bundle in his arms, not very much. He was tempted to crane his head a little, but he wouldn’t dare have his older brother Drali catch him even slightly misaligned from position. He respected Drali, who was aide-de-camp to the Mand’alor himself. Most of all, Emon respected the Mand’alor. They wouldn’t be anywhere close to where they were now if not for the Mand’alor.</p>
<p class="p2">That swaddled bundle which the Mand’alor cradled was his foundling son, sound asleep after a grueling day at the battlefield on that very morning. Emon’s breath caught in his throat as he recalled events, hours before dawn even hit, and they were pinned by an entire platoon of the feared and fabled <em>Dark Troopers</em>, which were no longer run by man but were full machine—super enhanced battle droids.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon and the Protectors were there. They all flanked the Mand’alor as he held the Darksaber before him, whistling its now familiar tune. Its fascinating non-light tickled the periphery of Emon’s vision beneath his own helmet.</p>
<p class="p2">The Dark Troopers suddenly poured in, like fire from the sky, perhaps deployed out of Imperial ships hovering above the planet’s atmosphere. Emon recalled the blood pumping so hotly in his veins. He and the Protectors were painstakingly taught to never fear death, but to draw power from honor should they fall in battle. They would certainly be the first to fall before the Mand’alor did.</p>
<p class="p2">His helmet cushioned the deafening sounds of blaster fire and explosions—and in a flash, the Mand’alor was off, Darksaber held high, and he had cut through one Dark Trooper, but not without the formidable droid grappling at the Mand’alor’s shoulder as quick as lightning, as though it had tried to mitigate the man’s blow. There was a split second’s struggle as the Mand’alor fought through the Dark Troopers grip before he cleanly ran the blade through the abomination. Sparks flew. The Mand’alor hacked again and again, and the Darksaber’s low, electric hum began to sound like music to Emon’s ears.</p>
<p class="p2">“Rally to the Mand’alor!” Emon heard Aikka Eldar, captain of the Protectors, yell into the comlink where their helmets were channeled to. “Surround him! <em>Protect</em> him!”</p>
<p class="p2">The Mand’alor had gone far off that Aikka himself and another Protector needed to use their jetpacks to keep up. Emon was about to launch himself forward to join them, but a sudden bout of superhuman strength yanked him down and backwards. Emon immediately realized that he was at the mercy of a Dark Trooper. A heavy fist landed on him; Emon tried to block it with both beskar vambraces from either arm raised, protecting his face, but the impact was too strong—his shield of limbs fell away and the droid’s fist met the front of his helmet. Emon couldn’t cry out. There was a coppery taste in his mouth.</p>
<p class="p2">The Dark Trooper’s fists began raining on him in quick succession. Emon bore each and every brunt—even <em>he</em> was surprised with how much he could take. His ears began to ring; Aikka was yelling out a steady stream of orders, but Emon’s brain had began to block all sound out.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon, as calmly as he could, counted the nanoseconds in between the blows; he calculated, found an opening, and it that precious slice of time, primed both his gauntlet blasters and fired at the Dark Trooper straight into its unseeing face. The red lights for its eyes crackled, as though it had been taken by surprise. The Dark Trooper withdrew a few steps back, and Emon found the opportunity to jet himself backwards, putting enough space between him and the dark giant before he crouched his body forward and released his jetpack missile, hitting the Dark Trooper squarely.</p>
<p class="p2">The explosion that ensued rattled the sands before him, but the smoke immediately cleared only to reveal that the Dark Trooper was still standing, albeit with one arm lightly torn from its shoulder-hinges. Its crimson eyes were alight again, and Emon, in one of the rare times of his young life, felt a sliver of <em>fear</em>.</p>
<p class="p2">He had heard of these third-generation Dark Troopers, manufactured <em>en masse </em>when the Imperial remnants discovered that these droids were both near-industrictible yet expendable. Huge, dark mechanical bodies shone ominously like gigantic black beetles around them. The chaos grew as the sun began to rise.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon planted his feet firmly on the ground and grit his teeth as the Dark Trooper swiftly recalibrated itself and had begun to charge towards him again. Emon braced himself; he had taken multiple grav charges out, one in between each finger. He had been told these were next to useless against a foe like the Dark Trooper, but Emon had to <em>try</em>. As with every Mandalorian on the battlefield that day, he was not going to go out without a frenzied fight.</p>
<p class="p2">“<em>Mand’alor</em>!” came a cry fizzled by static. It was his brother Drali’s voice.</p>
<p class="p2">To Emon’s irritation, the clamor had cut him off his focus; he released and activated the grav charges too soon. Emon was propelled back by many small but forceful explosions. Some of the gravs had made their way onto the Dark Trooper‘s body, where they detonated, but had only succeeded in peeling a fraction of its metallic skin off its equally metallic innards.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon was on his back on the sand. He was down, and the Dark Trooper would soon be upon him. He heard something like a clap of thunder above, loud enough that he felt the air around him <em>bend</em> and <em>rattle. </em>He looked upwards, and his visor scans picked up dozens upon dozens more of the black scarabs falling from the sky. <em>By the Maker</em>, Emon thought. They had sent down another platoon of Dark Troopers.</p>
<p class="p2">They were all done for. After close to over a year of trying to reclaim Mandalore, it was once again over.</p>
<p class="p2">Between the Dark Trooper before him and the multitude overhead, Emon knew that the worst had come. He hauled himself back to his feet, fully activated every weapon in every crevice of his armor, and prepared for the end.</p>
<p class="p2">Then, it was as if a huge magnet held the world around him in place—the half-wrecked Dark Trooper that had been charging towards him was suddenly pinned in its tracks, and ceased to move. Not altogether entirely—it coiled like a puppet held together by invisible string. It struggled but to no avail. It couldn’t free itself from this <em>invisible string</em>.</p>
<p class="p2">“What the—“ Emon heard the crackling voices of many Mandalorians around him.</p>
<p class="p2">“What the <em>kriff’s</em> going on?”</p>
<p class="p2">“They all stopped moving!”</p>
<p class="p2">“They’re just floating there! What the hell’s <em>happening?</em>”</p>
<p class="p2">“Beats me, sir.”</p>
<p class="p2">Emon found a second to collect his senses, and he looked around him.</p>
<p class="p2">Dozens upon dozens of Dark Troopers had been halted in midflight, and they hung suspended in the air, same as the Dark Trooper bent on finishing him off earlier. To Emon’s astonishment, the Dark Trooper was even lifted high enough so that its mechanical legs were dangling feet off the ground.</p>
<p class="p2">If not for the many confused voices exclaiming around him, there would have been dead—and almost solemn—silence.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon then found the time to turn to the direction to where the Mand’alor himself had charged towards. His breath came in huge gulps as he surveyed the Mand’alor—he was not very far, and to Emon’s further surprise, the man had slipped his helmet off, his gaze on the horizon. In fact, the helmet lay sideways on his feet, as though he had dropped it the moment he slid it off. The Mand’alor stood tall and firm, but was very still. His weathered cape blew slightly in the hot breeze.</p>
<p class="p2">“Emon, get your ass over here!” Aikka had hissed through the comlink, and Emon immediately obeyed, ferrying himself via jetpack to land by his Mand’alor’s side along with the other Protectors. And like the other Protectors, Emon followed the Mand’alor’s gaze.</p>
<p class="p2">There, against the burning, shivering orb of the rising Mandalore sun, was a <em>small </em>yet distinguishable silhouette. Emon couldn’t make out what it was, but the Mand’alore <em>knew.</em></p>
<p class="p2">“Grogu?” he heard the Mand’alor say, in utter but contained disbelief. Emon had also noted an outpour of <em>joy </em>in Din Djarin’s voice.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon had heard that name before.</p>
<p class="p2">It was the name of the Mand’alor’s foundling child.</p>
<p class="p2">Grogu—a being of controversy in the eyes of the Empire, of the New Republic, and certainly of Mandalore, among all Mandalorians. Grogu, of the Force-sensitive species, whom the Mand’alor had rescued, protected, nurtured—<em>have</em> <em>become a father to</em>—and was sent off to train with a fabled Jedi master.</p>
<p class="p2">Jedi. They were the enemies of Mandalorians in old times.</p>
<p class="p2">But at this moment, as the sun rose higher and the silhouette became a clearer image—Emon saw that Grogu was still very much an infant, but his small three-fingered hands were upraised, his eyes were tightly closed, his big ears drawn back under the sheer power of his concentration.</p>
<p class="p2">Grogu—little Grogu Djarin—seemed to have mastered a good amount of the Force. Hell, it was more mastery Emon himself could ever imagine. Grogu was impeding the attack of all these Dark Troopers, now looking so helpless as they dangled in the air, like empty shadows.</p>
<p class="p2">Before the Mand’alor could compose himself and take another step, Grogu had abruptly opened his eyes, and the sound that followed next was something Emon—and all the Mandalorians with him that day—would never forget.</p>
<p class="p2">It was the utterly satisfying sound of heavy Dark Trooper bodies getting <em>crushed </em>byan ever-so-powerful invisible weight. Many of the bodies crackled, caught fire; some exploded outright, and tiny tendrils of electricity weaved through their ruined shells.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon needed to see this sight with his own bare eyes. He slid his helmet off. Some Protectors followed suit. All their mouths fell agape at what they beheld. It was a stuff of legends for generations to come, perhaps.</p>
<p class="p2">The ruined Dark Trooper bodies bent and folded into themselves, and were clumped together like metallic clay to form a huge ball.</p>
<p class="p2">To his surprise, Emon heard the Mand’alor chuckle.</p>
<p class="p2">Din Djarin seemed to know what this was all about.</p>
<p class="p2">The huge, gleaming, crackling <em>ball</em> of crushed Dark Troopers slowly floated its way to their company, nearing the very feet of the Mand’alor. Some Protectors fell to defensive stances, instinctively ready to defend their sole ruler against any unwanted surprises.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon didn’t know exactly how long his mouth hung open as the gigantic, haphazardly-rounded dark mass stopped its journey a few feet from the Mand’alor.</p>
<p class="p2">Slowly, carefully, the mass landed almost gently before all of them—before Grogu’s father, Din Djarin. The sand barely swirled upon contact. The stillness had lasted for a few seconds.</p>
<p class="p2">The silence was broken with the sound of a small child’s laughter.</p>
<p class="p2">“Grogu!” called the Mand’alor once again, and the tiny green infant scrambled eagerly into the embrace of his father, who had knelt, arms outstretched, with a visibly ecstatic expression on his tanned, bloodied features.</p>
<p class="p2">The child squealed <em>very</em> happily.</p>
<p class="p2">“Don’t be fooled, Mand’alor,” a bright, youthful, and matter-of-fact voice talked over the sounds of joyful reunion. Once more, the Protectors tensed, Emon included—but the voice’s source quickly made itself known.</p>
<p class="p2">A hooded figure in textured black robes silently strode into view. Not far behind was an R2 droid, slithering casually on the sand.</p>
<p class="p2">The Mand’alor was on his feet again, his son affixed on his arm. There was so much delight on the little green child’s face. Emon caught himself stifling a smile.</p>
<p class="p2">“Jedi,” Din Djarin returned the unusual greeting.</p>
<p class="p2">The Protectors and other Mandalorians within earshot all exchanged quick glances, too respectful of the moment to begin a lengthy buzz of excited whispers, so all kept silent and let the two men speak.</p>
<p class="p2">The figure pulled his hood back to reveal a young face. Emon thought that the man could be no older than his brother Drali—maybe in his mid-twenties, but no older than thirty.</p>
<p class="p2">The young man who the Mand’alor addressed as <em>Jedi </em>made an expression as matter-of-fact as his tone. “I’ve told Grogu that he couldn’t really handle all that on his own <em>yet</em>, so I helped—“</p>
<p class="p2">Grogu gave a small wail of protest, and Din Djarin smiled once again.</p>
<p class="p2">“—a <em>little</em>,” the Jedi added graciously, playfully bowing his head in acknowledgment. “And please, call me Luke. Or Master Skywalker. Any of the two will do. I’m not much for formalities.” The young man smiled a small smile, but an air of power hung around him, through him, within him. Is this how all<em> Jeti--</em>the Jedi-<em>-</em>carried themselves?</p>
<p class="p2">“Then call me Din,” the Mand’alor replied with the same politeness. “Or Mand’alor if need be.”</p>
<p class="p2">Din Djarin held a very significant title, after all.</p>
<p class="p2">“Very well,” the man named Master Skywalker jovially agreed.</p>
<p class="p2">The R2 droid, now beside the Jedi, rattled cheerfully, with high-pitched beeps to match its high spirits.</p>
<p class="p2">Now here they were—Emon had pondered mightily over the whole ordeal, as they had all gathered in the capital of Sundari, once the beautiful seat of Mandalorian civilization, ruined by war but was now being rebuilt. The Sundari Royal Palace was no exception to the restoration as each beam, arch, and hallway was reconstructed from the ashes it all had fallen into. The bio-dome had held for long, since resetting it to hold a large amount of life again.</p>
<p class="p2">The young Mandalorian warrior’s senses drifted back to the scene at hand—of the Mand’alor calmly yet sternly debriefing all those called to the assembly hall. Unfortunately, there were still some who perished under the Dark Trooper attack, but as soon as the Jedi and his student practically decimated the enemy that very morning, scouts have noted that the signal of Imperial ships have disappeared. They all had jumped to hyperspace—a hasty, messy retreat.</p>
<p class="p2">Grogu had obviously worked himself to a stupor of slumber. The Mand’alor rocked the child briefly from time to time as he spoke, his sonorous voice echoing throughout the beams and walls.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon noted that Master Skywalker and his R2 droid companion were silently stationed at the corner of the assembly hall, closer to the entrance. He had replaced his hood over his head—was that customary of their order? Emon thought—but his face was more visible, his expression almost unreadable, but certainly non-threatening. There was a certain wisdom and poise in the Jedi which Emon quickly admired.</p>
<p class="p2">For a moment, Master Skywalker met his gaze, as if he knew that Emon was staring at him, and at once Emon looked down, embarassed of his rudeness.</p>
<p class="p2"><em>The Jedi of old songs</em>. There was one of their kind right in this room, with a council of Mandalorians, among them the Mand’alor himself, with a Jedi trainee of a foundling son cradled close to his armored chest.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon could already hear the monument-makers of Keldabe discussing which likeness of the Mand’alor Din Djarin they would work on once the inauguration of the new bio-dome was complete. It would be of the Mand’alor, Darksaber on one hand, and on the other, regally nestled in an upright position would be Grogu Djarin.</p>
<p class="p2">Emon caught himself smiling openly, and felt the heated gaze of Aikka, who stood closer to the Mand’alor, penetrate his skull. Emon reverted to his signature stifled smile, and thought of what the coming days would have in store for them, even as the Empire seemed to grow stronger, now that the Mand’alor was reunited with one of the <em>most powerful beings in the galaxy</em>—and after that recent fantastic display of victory upon the sands of Mandalore, Emon hoped that that were true.</p>
<p class="p2">Maybe he’ll even try making friends with Grogu, with the Mand’alor’s permission, of course.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This style of story was kinda popular in my time (and I'm dirt old, LOLOL), where events begin in the middle. I was just inspired to place the middle of the story in the Prologue, because I'm weird that way. Just kidding. As always, I'm very, very grateful for the kudos and comments in advance! Until Chapter 1. Ahahaha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In Disarray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We return to the beginning. Axe Woves is certain they were close to this stage of triumph, only to find out that a different Mandalorian now holds the darksaber. He did not expect it to be Din Djarin, and he—as well as Koska Reeves, and Bo-Katan herself, are left in a soberingly dubious situation. Din is in a dilemma himself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ever wondered why the male Mando with Bo-Katan in Chapter 11 was no longer with them in the finale? Well, our boy Axe Woves didn't get stranded by a bathroom situation after all (as one of the running jokes go). LOL! Anyway, I missed the chap, so here is my version of why he might have been away. :P</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <strong>Chapter 1: In Disarray</strong>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>The third moon of Concord Dawn, 10 ABY</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">A soupy, course fog began to form across the low, twilight grey skies, so one barely knew whether it was daylight or nighttime.</p><p class="p1">Axe Woves scanned the zenith as he awaited the arrival of Lady Bo-Katan upon the barren sands of the Concord Dawn moon. They had decided to rendezvous here once he had gotten word that Moff Gideon’s light cruiser has been captured and ferried to where he and a squad of Mandalorians stood still like cowled pikes, glinting dustily.</p><p class="p1">“They’re here,” came a gruff, female voice through the comlink in his helmet.</p><p class="p1">Axe braced himself, his muscles tightening underneath his armor. “Copy that,” he acknowledged, just as gruffly.</p><p class="p1">The air was suddenly alive and alight with lights that mingled with the viscosity of the moon’s atmosphere. The leviathan-like shape of the Imperial cruiser slowly came to view, a huge gravel shadow covering them like a cloud.</p><p class="p1">Axe heard the soft rattling of armor surround him as the small escort he had brought along stood in attention. Axe couldn’t get his gaze off the light cruiser‘s huge, hovering form as it made its descent, deciding to land on an even space of rock some meters in front of the company.</p><p class="p1"><em>She did it</em>, Axe mused, half in disbelief, half in relief. They had actually taken the Imperial ship, and brought the mudscuffer with them who would finally be brought to justice for partaking in  thousands upon thousands of Mandalorian deaths.</p><p class="p1">The cruiser finally landed in a billowing cloud of fog and sand. The engines died down with a sluggish roar. This was Axe’s cue to take his company closer to the ship.</p><p class="p1">“Steady,” Axe calmly commanded the squad of seven Mandalorians as they made their way to the light cruiser. “Keep alert. We don’t know if the Lady is truly not in danger.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes sir,” a young voice responded. Axe noted a slight nervousness in it. Some of these Mandalorians have still not recovered from the Purge even as they survived it, and were very young when it happened.</p><p class="p1">They were now by the legs of the cruiser as its doors hissed open in a swirl of silver mist, and the ramp eased its way to the moon’s rocky floor.</p><p class="p1">Axe’s throat tightened. He had counted a full fifteen seconds before a figure exited the ramp with a half-hearted sort of pomp.</p><p class="p1">It was indeed the Lady Bo-Katan, but she held her poise in such a manner that was haughty… yet disconsolate.</p><p class="p1">He waited for Bo-Katan to don herself out of the helmet before he himself did. She was but a few paces away, and Axe immediately saw the tiredness on her face. There was dullness in her usually vibrantly angry green eyes.</p><p class="p1">“M’lady,” Axe called, respectfully and firmly. The Mandalorians behind him gave their salute.</p><p class="p1">“Woves,” Bo-Katan returned the salute with a small nod of her head.</p><p class="p1">Soon, Axe himself was disconsolate. In a hushed tone, bending slightly forward so his voice met her ears, asked with unexpected worry: “What could be the matter, M’lady?”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan remained silent awhile.</p><p class="p1">“Where is Reeves?” Axe inquired, the disquiet in his tone more apparent.</p><p class="p1">“She’ll follow shortly,” Bo-Katan replied, almost whispering. She sounded as tired as she looked.</p><p class="p1">Axe nodded wordlessly.</p><p class="p1">True enough, Koska Reeves of the Nite Owls walked her way down the ramp, already de-helmeted but not looking all too very pleased.</p><p class="p1">Axe took this moment to ask of Bo-Katan: “Did you kill him?” He meant Moff Gideon.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan turned to him, but her eyes looked unfocused—although she still held her stubborn demeanor. “No,” she said simply.</p><p class="p1">“What?”</p><p class="p1">“The New Republic has a price on that scumbag’s head. One of their Marshals was with us to help take the light cruiser. It was the deal that they take the Moff, while we take the ship.”</p><p class="p1">“M’lady…”</p><p class="p1">To his surprise, Bo-Katan’s lips formed a sneer. “This is the Way,” she whispered. There was a distinguishable <em>disgust</em> in her tone.</p><p class="p1">Axe was at loss for words, thoughts roiling into his mind. He briefly took his attention off Bo-Katan to address Koska, who now had halted by the foot of the ramp.</p><p class="p1">Koska had an uncertain look on her face which she vainly tried to hide.</p><p class="p1">“You wanna tell me what’s going on here, Reeves?” he grimly demanded of someone more of his equal.</p><p class="p1">Koska’s mouth hardened and she tipped her head towards the top of the ramp.</p><p class="p1">“What are you playing at?“</p><p class="p1">Axe heard footsteps clanking down the ramp, and he was suddenly alert.</p><p class="p1">He certainly did <em>not</em> expect the two Nite Owls of this mission to bring in a new face.</p><p class="p1">He had not seen this face before; yet this man that descended the ship wore Mandalorian armor. He couldn’t place it. He himself had met errant Mandalorians along the way, some of which he successfully recruited to their cause.</p><p class="p1">The man’s face had fallen into his view, as well as the view of all those present.</p><p class="p1">It was a face that was not young but certainly not too old. This Mandalorian was not exactly clean-shaven, but his features were ruggedly aquiline. It was not an unpleasant face at all, and was in fact strikingly handsome. His dark eyes and equally dark hair actually reminded Axe of his own, but still—this was a face he had not seen before.</p><p class="p1">“Who’s this?” Axe dropped all formality and decided to get to the point.</p><p class="p1">The bare-faced Mandalorian stood unflinching, but he held a bearing that was not very… resolute.</p><p class="p1">Koska was not usually dour-faced, but this time, she <em>was</em>, and when she spoke, there was a shred of disdain.</p><p class="p1">“That, Woves… is our <em>new Mand’alor.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Axe knew his own expression changed as the other lone Mandalorian before them seemed to mirror it. His entire body tensed. He heard the murmur of other tensed bodies around him, and humming static filled the air.</p><p class="p1">Suddenly, it dawned on Axe. The armor this Mandalorian wore was familiar now, with the silver of pure beskar wrapped around him. His eyes met the mudhorn-shaped signet on the man’s right pauldron. His countenance grew dismal.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the Mandalorian we met at Trask,” he uttered, not sure if he directed the words to himself or to the man before him. “What is the meaning of this?”</p><p class="p1">The other Mandalorian was trying his best not to look too aggrieved and disgruntled. Axe felt an alien, almost clumsy impression emanate from the man who has never taken his helmet off since time immemorial. He could not forget that this Mandalorian was raised among the Children of the Watch. <em>He’s one of them</em>, he had relayed to Bo-Katan on Trask.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian spoke, and without the modulator, his voice sounded less formidable. “On the contrary, I could ask the same of you and <em>your</em> Lady Bo-Katan.”</p><p class="p1">“How <em>dare</em>—“ Koska showed little patience of how the Mandalorian addressed the Lady with his own brand of disdain. She was about to unsheathe one of her blasters—</p><p class="p1">The onset of a scuffle began to ensue. Axe at once drew his own Westar pistol—a handsome prize taken back from the Gozanti freighter shipment they had hijacked, which he himself piloted to this very moon.</p><p class="p1">The squad of Mandalorians followed suit. All their weapons were quickly drawn, and all of these weapons pointing to the silver-clad Mandalorian.</p><p class="p1">Yet the man kept his ground.</p><p class="p1">Instead, the man let out a resigned, but very <em>frustrated</em> sigh as he himself quickly drew something out from the top of his jetpack. The sickening unease grew as Axe realized that he was preparing to shoot down <em>a fellow Mandalorian.</em></p><p class="p1">“Hold your fire,” the commanding voice of Bo-Katan reverberated from where she stood a small distance behind the squad. She lingered as this scene unfolded.</p><p class="p1">Axe dared not take his eyes off the Mandalorian, not even to meet Koska’s gaze who he knew was equally ruffled. “M’lady, are you in any way in danger?” Axe called sternly.</p><p class="p1">“No. Now put those weapons down.”</p><p class="p1">He and Koska finally exchanged glances before they reluctantly obeyed.</p><p class="p1">For a moment, a confused silence reigned.</p><p class="p1">“That man is Din Djarin,” Bo-Katan introduced the stranger to them. “He helped take Moff Gideon and the Imperial crew of this ship down. And until we decide the next step, he <em>is</em> the new Mand’alor.”</p><p class="p1">“Lady Bo-Katan!” Koska groaned incredulously in protest.</p><p class="p1">“I said what I said,” Bo-Katan articulated, voice low—a mix of tenacity and resignation.</p><p class="p1">What this man named Din Djarin produced behind his jetpack was a hilt-looking object made out of beskar.</p><p class="p1">Djarin had the hilt in everyone’s full view before he ignited the blade.</p><p class="p1">Axe’s eyes grew wide. Even Koska’s expression betrayed the fact that she could not keep her own awe from surfacing.</p><p class="p1">It was the legendary darksaber—once in the hands of Bo-Katan, which then had disgracefully ended in the hands of Moff Gideon years before.</p><p class="p1">Its discordant, melodic whistle filled the pockets of mist around them. Axe knew that glow well enough—a strip of blackness and then a brilliant, shocking white, buttressed by veins of crackling luminosity.</p><p class="p1">Din spoke once again. “Lady Bo-Katan never once revealed to me,” he proclaimed, with a hint of weariness, “that winning this <em>weapon</em> in combat would make the victor the sole ruler of all Mandalorians.”</p><p class="p1">Axe at once turned to face Bo-Katan. He could no longer hide his confusion, like a gaping wound. “Did he—“ He could not find the words to finish.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan somehow understood, and nodded. “It’s true. He knew nothing of its lore—I had assumed I was to take on the Moff myself. He won it against Gideon. We ran through the recorded surveillance footage that we could gather. At that moment, he had no choice but to fight the bastard. And,” that was when her and Djarin’s gaze met in some form of self-willed understanding, “he certainly wasn’t going to let the Moff finish him.”</p><p class="p1">Din Djarin silently deactivated the darksaber, the dark blade hissing back into the hilt.</p><p class="p1">Koska scoffed—a very mirthless one, and started her way towards Axe and the squad. However, her gaze flitted now and then towards Din Djarin. It was as if she battled between the prospect of respecting Din’s new position, or exclusively keeping her loyalties to Bo-Katan.</p><p class="p1">Axe, crestfallen, felt the same.</p><p class="p1">Din lowered his gaze a little, as thought to nod, and started to make his way back into the ship.</p><p class="p1">“Where are you going?” Axe demanded of the man, not intending to sound too piercingly harsh. Confusion still overcame him.</p><p class="p1">As per Mandalorian custom and deep-seated tradition, Din Djarin was indeed the Mand’alor.</p><p class="p1">For now.</p><p class="p1">Din halted in his tracks but did not turn back to say the words to his face. “Nevarro.”</p><p class="p1">“May I know why?”</p><p class="p1">Din pivoted his body a little. The man’s face looked <em>very</em> tired, and grave.</p><p class="p1">“I need to touch base with the magistrate there,” he replied, without hostility. “You know where to find me. Otherwise, I’ll return to settle whatever needs to be settled with regards to this… <em>Mand’alor business</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Axe flinched at how Din bitterly enunciated the last two words.</p><p class="p1">It dawned on Axe that Din did not want the Darksaber to come to him—as with the burden that came with it symbolically.</p><p class="p1">He was an unwilling piece to the puzzle of a grand scheme that can eventually help unite all of their people. Axe somehow understood half of it.</p><p class="p1">Din no longer wore the helmet, and it was nowhere in sight. The man had broken his lifelong creed. He was in a capricious position—and perhaps needed the time, no matter how much the clock was ticking—to consider all possibilities ahead of him.</p><p class="p1">Axe gave Din a curt nod, not quite in reverence yet… but he felt that he was getting there.</p><p class="p1">“Move out,” Axe ordered the squad behind him, and obediently, they turned around and marched to a quiet, near-despondent rhythm back to their makeshift base, one which they had been building and kept hidden as best as they can from Imperial eyes for the past few months.</p><p class="p2">***</p><p class="p1">Din Djarin was, of course, not going to take the entire cruiser with him.</p><p class="p1">It had been combed and cleared away of the unfortunate dead, wiped out by the expertise of Marshal Dune, Shand, and the Nite Owls.</p><p class="p1">And of course, their unexpected rescuer—the one he now knew as one of the sorcerers in their old tales—the <em>Jedi.</em></p><p class="p1">He fought hard to keep the comfort that the kid, Grogu—his small son—was now in safe hands. If they were to meet again was all up to the fates, even as he himself had no inclination to believe in destiny and some such spectre dream.</p><p class="p1">He trudged to the hangar bay; his beskar helmet lay on a metal crate by the foot of the Lambda shuttle, the same shuttle which they used to disguise their entry into the lightcruiser.</p><p class="p1">Despite being banged up, the shuttle needed no major repairs. In fact, he was ready to leave in it and immediately head back to Nevarro after Marshal Dune, the accursed prisoner, as well as Shand had hailed Boba Fett in his <em>Slave I </em>and jumped to hyperspace to a location Cara was reluctant to share.</p><p class="p1">Din did not press her on for it. He felt he sorely needed the small peace of mind he could muster at that moment. It’s privy to the New Republic, and not to him.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan had stalled him and insisted that they escort each other to the exit ramp as they rendezvoused with Axe Woves. Din had grown uptight and suspicious at once, but Bo-Katan’s eyes softened for a split-second.</p><p class="p1">Din, without his helmet, saw faces openly again after so <em>many</em> years. He noted each twitch of the eye, each minuscule trace of a frown—and to Bo-Katan’s credit, the spark of acquiescence which flitted away the moment it appeared that donned her dark green eyes.</p><p class="p1">Cradling his helmet at his side, Din strode into the Lambda shuttle’s cockpit. He idled for a while, certain that he wore a pained expression on his face. If he could no longer put the helmet back on, his face would be an open book from this day forward.</p><p class="p1">Sighing, he punched in controls as he slowly took to flight, wings spreading like a paper kite in a steady breeze. He ascended into the atmosphere, leaving the desolate moon of Concord Dawn behind him—leaving the disquietness of the squad Woves brought with him, leaving the memory of how they moved with a fragmented sense of purpose, of how they perceived him with the same haughtiness Bo-Katan had, even as they still wore their helmets throughout the ordeal.</p><p class="p1">However, he had noticed, as they all turned to follow Axe, that one of them lingered for a moment, as though curiously regarding him. The Mandalorian that stayed for what seemed like a full minute was slight of built, but lithe-looking; a young Mandalorian, perhaps barely out of his teens.</p><p class="p1">The young Mandalorian, to Din’s surprise, issued him a salute before turning away as well to join his squad.</p><p class="p1">Din felt like the usurper, a suppsosition Bo-Katan wanted him to marinate in, even if she didn’t outright tell him.</p><p class="p1">Once he was clear for hyperspace travel, he punched in the coordinates to Nevarro, and in a flash of pinpricks of light, the Lambda shuttle was gone.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Once again, thanks so much for reading! I know things aren't picking up as much yet, but I've got this whole epic thing brewing in my head (ahahaha), so hopefully you guys would stick around? And to be honest, I'm still familiarizing myself with AO3's system of publishing and all that, so I'm a granny fiddling with the controls for now. :P Thank you for the kudos and comments. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Old Friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din returns to Nevarro to visit Greef Karga, but mostly to find a small moment’s peace to clear his head as he visits the ruins of his old Covert, but did not expect to find something of value there.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have to admit, writing this story feels like visiting the series in a way. xD I do miss the Fridays when new episodes came up, but I'm set with watching WandaVision for now. Anyone seen it yet? :D Anyway, here's the next chapter. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <strong>Chapter 2: Old Friend</strong>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Mando!”</p><p class="p1">Din heard Greef Karga’s booming, cheerful voice before he even had a glimpse of the man. He hadn’t even alighted the Lambda shuttle yet. The shadows of the high late afternoon sun over Nevarro bled shadows across the ramp where they met the tips of his boots.</p><p class="p1">Din swallowed hard, easing a tinge of nervousness. He still hasn’t reworn his helmet. He no longer felt the inclination to, at least for the time being, and who knew for how long. The helmet lay like a dead, metal thing upon the empty co-pilot seat, and once he had placed it there before he flew out into hyperspace, he not once laid his eyes on it.</p><p class="p1">However, as he descended the ramp, he clutched the helmet tightly to his side until the hard, solid feel of it almost crushed his torso. The padding of his flight suit underneath folded as though in defeat.</p><p class="p1">Finally, the mild air of Nevarro met his face, and Din felt the sun on his skin. The shadows lifted from view and there was the magistrate Greef Karga, feet planted on the ground in an easy yet proud stance, his hands to his hips, looking very glad indeed that Din had decided to visit for whatever reason.</p><p class="p1">“Oh—OH! Hmmm.” Greef took a moment to blink a few times.</p><p class="p1">Din issued him a barely visible smile, which he knew had looked more like a grimace. Greef Karga was seeing his bare face for the first time.</p><p class="p1">“Well—“ Greef cleared his throat, as though he was fighting to keep the best politeness possible. “Cara was right, then!”</p><p class="p1">Din’s eyebrows lifted. “What did Cara say…?”</p><p class="p1">Greef at once laughed his rich, belly-deep laugh and to Din’s surprise, the man enveloped him in a hug.</p><p class="p1">Din stood there, stiff as a wall, not knowing whether to return Greef’s sudden embrace or not, but Greef withdrew just as quickly as he had wrapped his beefy arms around Din.</p><p class="p1">Greef held him for a moment at arm’s length, but with a kind smile and equally kind eyes. Din didn’t expect to suddenly feel a sort of warm fondness for the older man, whereas it was nothing but professionalism, once cold and calculating, in the past.</p><p class="p1">“She said you’ve um… <em>decided </em>about what to do with that Mando Creed of yours.” Din was about to open his mouth when Greef tried to silence him, but in a gentle, friendly manner. “Now, now, I know it’s something private. You’ll have to excuse our dear Cara, but she did tell me to expect you without the helmet on.”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t know how to respond to that. He knew, however, that he must have looked like a fool just staring at Greef like a tongue-tied youngster, with an uncertain expression on his face.</p><p class="p1">Greef’s eyes wrinkled with an almost fatherly smile. “Look at you. Look at <em>you!” </em>Greef lightly squeezed Din’s arm in an affectionate gesture. “Didn’t you <em>know</em>—you <em>son of a mudscuffer</em> you—that you’re one fine-looking <em>rascal</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“I—“ Didn’t felt even more tongue-tied than before. He wasn’t even certain if the heat that crept to his ears was him blushing. He had never really seen himself blush ever since he was a child, before he had sworn himself to the Creed.</p><p class="p1">Greef shook a finger at him. “Well, you’d better start getting used to a new kind of stares, my friend. Especially from the ladies, if you ask me.”</p><p class="p1">Din knew his lips had formed an awkward line. He felt his brows furrow. So it seemed that Cara hasn't told Greef yet about him being the Darksaber's new wielder.</p><p class="p1">Greef once again laughed heartily, with no trace of malice. “Well, come on! Where are my manners? Where’s our Nevarroan hospitalty?” The man happily led him through the city’s gate. “What say we get you a drink, huh, Mando?”</p><p class="p1">Din looked around him. He started, with an abrupt, reflexive turn of his head when he saw three X-Wings parked more far out into the open, about quarter of a mile away. The memory of a sole X-Wing landing on the Imperial Light Cruiser’s hangar came to him at that moment. <em>The Jedi’s X-Wing</em>. He narrowed his eyes and sighed.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll have to take a raincheck on that drink, Karga,” Din managed to say, his glance still upon the X-Wings, the sight of them rippling from the haze and heat.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Again</em>?” Greef halted and glowered at Din jokingly. “Blast it, man, that would be the third time—“ He followed Din’s gaze, and he huffed.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, <em>that</em>,” Greef sputtered, with a hint of annoyance. “Since Cara took in some responsibility as Marshal of the New Republic, those starfighters did their rounds here every now and then. But they never really exceed that number. Five at most, and only once.” Greef shrugged. “A small price to pay. The peace’s kept on Nevarro, and that’s all that concerns me.”</p><p class="p1">Din stopped in his tracks, and Greef allowed him.</p><p class="p1">Greef’s voice was suddenly low and apologetic.</p><p class="p1">“Cara’s told me about our little green friend,” Greef began. Din noticed and appreciated the care Greef had in his words. “Well—she knew you really wouldn’t be up for talking. And she’s right.” Greef gave him a small, toothy smile. “Don’t you worry, Mando. Your kid’s in safe hands. I've started a small-scale retrieval of some old records via New Republic connections. Last I've read of the Jedi, the tales of their treachery were all fabrications. They were wise guardians.” Greef shrugged. “Many mixed stories about them. But—if that knight who saved all your asses back up there is any indication of their greatness…” Greef patted Din’s back, against the beskar plate. “It’s all well and good.”</p><p class="p1">“Where is Cara?” Din asked of his friend, not really knowing what else to blabber out—but he was genuinely curious.</p><p class="p1">Greef swatted a gloved hand across his face, as though telling him to dismiss the thought. “Busy. Marshall duties. She’s sent a single message via holoprojector, just her, and I certainly couldn’t make out where she was. There was no way for me to return it. I guess it’s really top secret, where she’s decided to take that—that <em>damned</em> Moff.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded, quite absently. He swallowed a lump in his throat.</p><p class="p1">Greef took notice of the younger man’s discomfort. “What is it, son?”</p><p class="p1">Din was surprised Greef would address him as such. He supposed now that his face revealed that he was a much younger man than Greef, that the magistrate took some liberty to exploit that fact a little, in a most good-natured way.</p><p class="p1">“The old Mandalorian Covert…” Din began.</p><p class="p1">Greef seemed to catch the quiet pain in his eyes. Din knew that Greef was perceptive in his own way, once having to deal with the worst of the galaxy at the Bounty Hunter’s Guild.</p><p class="p1">“Mando,” Greef said, “the tunnels have been cleared out for a while now. They’re absolutely desolate, I’m afraid.” Greef sighed. “No sign of even your friend who we saw last that fended off those Imperial scumbags.”</p><p class="p1">Din gave Greef a brief nod.</p><p class="p1">The older man continued, gripping Din’s shoulder, right atop the pauldron. “If you wish to visit those tunnels again, feel free.” Suddenly Greef’s eyes were sad. “Take all the time you need, Mando.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s Din,” Din reminded the magistrate kindly, in a soft, non-urgent voice.</p><p class="p1">“What’s that?”</p><p class="p1">“Din. Din Djarin. My name—as you’ve once heard it spoken by Gideon before.”</p><p class="p1">A ghost of a smile formed on Greef’s face. “Ah yes… how could I forget? Well, then, Din Djarin. Din or Djarin or Din Djarin. I’ll pick what to call you and you’d know the direness of the occasion when I do that.” The wince formed into a genuine smile.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you,” Din said, now merely mouthing the words. The tiredness descended upon him again.</p><p class="p1">Greef gave both his shoulders a good, surprisingly fatherly squeeze before the magistrate decided to part ways with him for the day. “You know where to find me, at my office, er,” he said, “Din Djarin.”</p><p class="p1">For once in a long while, Din smiled, but it was a weary one.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Greef Karga was right.</p><p class="p1">The tunnels were empty.</p><p class="p1">He noticed the newly-installed lights upon the walls, which blinked to life as he made his presence known. The long hallways had seemed to stretch forever before, when the darkness concealed their breadth and length.</p><p class="p1">Swallowed in a wash of pale yellow light, Din realized how everything seemed far smaller than he remembered. His heart dropped a little. The dry air of the now-cleaned up tunnels met his face.</p><p class="p1">He closed his eyes for a second, taking in what his senses can gather. Once, the tunnels were sprawling with his fellow Mandalorians, all who had followed the Way, who never took off their helmets and not even lifted them partially to eat while they were in full view of the others. Their numbers were indeed few, but when they huddled in the darkness, there was an odd comfort even in those small numbers. The echo of the foundlings’ laughter graced the walls and the low, arched ceilings. He suddenly yearned for the sound of their running footsteps, tiny feet on stone. He had taken all that for granted, as the days he had lived, one at a time, were but a blur of bounty hunting duty.</p><p class="p1">He opened his eyes once again to the pale light. When he shuffled his feet a little, the sound carried itself down the labyrinth.</p><p class="p1">Din followed the labyrinth, still clutching his beskar helmet one-handedly by his side. The other hand he freed and readied just in case anything unsavorly turned up.</p><p class="p1">He walked further down, remembering where some of his brothers and sisters of the Tribe situated themselves as they waited their own turn to walk the surface of Nevarro. In his periphery he had always noted the visored stares they gave him—stares perhaps done out of habit, maybe some out of spite, like Paz Vizsla’s—yet when the time arose, every single one of them came to his aid, and he and Grogu had been able to escape.</p><p class="p1">The twinge he felt in his chest felt more painful now, when it was but a wisp of unease a few minutes before.</p><p class="p1">He found what he was looking for.</p><p class="p1">He stood before the huge concrete doors of what was once the forge, the beating, fiery heart of their Covert.</p><p class="p1">The forge was cold and empty. It had been so for a while, as Greef said.</p><p class="p1">Din noticed that in the place of the Mythosaur skull which the Armorer had hung herself was but a mere outline, emblazoned on the stone from the heat of the forge as the Armorer worked, day in and day out.</p><p class="p1">The Mythosaur skull was but a copy, a mere ornament, but it had been a heavy one. Nearly as heavy as the real skull of a creature which no longer roamed the galaxy many centuries ago. Who may have taken it down, and taken it with them? Had the Armorer herself done so? She was entirely too physically powerful for a woman. Even Paz had kept his distance.</p><p class="p1">Din set the beskar helmet on his feet to free one hand, and slide his other hand out of the leather glove. Din reached out and touched the stone pillars of the forge. They felt dead, just as he had expected them to. He would perhaps never know how many had perished—and only if he would know how many had lived.</p><p class="p1">He would come upon that notion again when the time was right. If any of the Tribe had survived, they would be even more hidden, and he would be needing more resources, more patience—and less of his guilt.</p><p class="p1">“This is the Way,” Din softly called out, only to himself, and the meaning was lost. The words felt as empty as the cavernous chamber before him. Those were words of an old life.</p><p class="p1">He bent down to retrieve his helmet when something shiny caught the corner of his eye.</p><p class="p1">Helmet once more cradled in one hand, he stood to his full height but directed his attention to the object that glittered dully under the pale light.</p><p class="p1">They were nestled, half-hidden, behind the tools cabinet. Din gingerly approached, and with an ounce of strength, pushed part of the cabinet back.</p><p class="p1">What he discovered left him stunned for a while.</p><p class="p1">There, upon a dusty corner, were a pair of cartridges which held dozens of glowing pinpricks of Whistling Birds.</p><p class="p1">Din at once recoiled and quickly surveyed the nooks and crannies around him.</p><p class="p1">Did the Armorer leave them there? And were they even for <em>him</em>? Did she know that he would return to this very room, and catch sight of those precious tiny but evidently deadly beskar rockets?</p><p class="p1">Din’s heart began to pound heavily.</p><p class="p1">Yet many years of tracking experience as a bountry hunter and his own sharpened instincts told him that the Covert had been gone for a very long time now, but the Armorer may have indeed left him this gift.</p><p class="p1">Come to think of it, he never really knew who the Armorer was. She led the Tribe with her composed wisdom, like a priestess, or a mother, but with not much attachment to her children. She was only there when they needed her for armor repairs, or new pieces. No one really wore beskar anymore until he did, and the Armorer had worked more quickly with Durasteel and other similar metals.</p><p class="p1">Yet Din wordlessly stared at the cartridges. He was always naturally suspicious.</p><p class="p1">He also realized that in order to scan the cartridges and point out any danger in them, he would need the technology embedded in his helmet—</p><p class="p1">—the helmet which he had slid off, and so many had seen his face… and it sat there in his grip, like the metal head of a dead warrior, staring back at him with empty T-visor eyes.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Dank farrik</em>,” Din muttered, in resigned irritation.</p><p class="p1">The Whistling Birds would have to wait. The sun was setting on Nevarro. He would need to take his supper soon, and be ready with a course of action at first daylight.</p><p class="p1">He turned his back to the forge, for now.</p><p class="p1">Din reached the surface of Nevarro once more, finding his way out the labyrinth as though it were yesterday. The cold night air greeted him.</p><p class="p1">Din took in a breath of air through his bare nostrils, and felt the gentle chill of the wind on his bare face. The streets were almost empty—everyone would be having supper themselves, in inns and in their homes.</p><p class="p1">He trudged his way to an inn which he had frequented before for his meals, which he took boxed up for him to take back to the tunnels in his own private room, as tiny as a prison cell, where he would eat them alone, in silence, and in peace.</p><p class="p1">However, tonight would be different.</p><p class="p1">He would get a table and eat, and think very deeply—and it mattered not if strangers rained stares upon his face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for the new kudos and comments! My story here seems to be not gaining as much traction as I've hoped--I know it runs a bit slow! :P To be honest, I'm VERY rusty with my writing/storytelling skills. The last time I wrote a story at all was 2018 (apart from my Mayfeld one, and I did admit as well of my rustyyyy gears). D: I definitely need to hone them skills again, so help a sister out! :P Let me all know what you think so far. Kisses, all!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Half-Empty, Half-Full</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An otherwise uneventful night turns into a series of epiphanies which leads Din to only few of the answers he had been looking for.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 3: Half-Empty, Half-Full</b>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Din entered the inn’s cantina as unceremoniously as he could, and still some faces turned to him, as it was their manner to survey every customer that shuffled in.</p><p class="p1">His kept his eyes low, dodging those gazes, yet his senses were sharp. When he had worn the helmet, everything was definitely amplified, but within this stretch of being helmet-free, he felt his dulling senses begin to revitalize.</p><p class="p1">His shadowed demeanor under the purring halogen lights made a few diners lose interest as they resumed their meal quietly, while some gazes lingered out of boredom. It seemed like a slow night.</p><p class="p1">Most of the diners were human, and most look like what Greef would call “respectable folk.” If Greef asserted that Nevarro was in its safest now than ever before, Din still had his reservations.</p><p class="p1">He carefully placed his beskar helmet upon the table, a respectul distance from where his meal would be served. And as if on cue, a server, a middle-aged human male, came to him for his order.</p><p class="p1">“What’d it be?” the man asked, like clockwork. He had a soiled-looking cap on his dirty blond, oily hair, and was sweating despite the cool Nevarroan night. He smelled of curdled milk, made more intense now that Din was further exposed to such… sensations.</p><p class="p1">“What’s the special?” Din asked in his usual gruff tone.</p><p class="p1">Almost at once, like a switch was flipped, the server looked up from his datapad where he recorded customer’s orders and peered at Din’s face. “I recognize <em>that </em>voice, sir.”</p><p class="p1">Din was a bit taken aback by the man’s politeness. “What of it?” Din inquired, not harshly.</p><p class="p1">The server blinked. “I’m usually at the back doing the dishes but now’s all quiet-like here and I’ve been promoted, I still think I could remember that voice anywhere. You’re that—that Mandal—“</p><p class="p1">Din subtly shot him a cautious look, signalling not to draw too much attention to them.</p><p class="p1">“Pardon me, sir,” said the man apologetically. “But yes, that’s <em>you</em>, all right—meant no offense, sir. But… I had thought the lot of you never took your helmets off…”</p><p class="p1">Din wasn’t sure if the man saw the dark of his own eyes, but if they flickered with annoyance, the man seemed to sense it.</p><p class="p1">“Oh yes, yes, the special,” the man said sheepishly, taking in Din’s unamused expression. He bowed and backed away. “Isn’t that what you get on the weekends, sir? Right, right,” and the man was gone to the kitchen.</p><p class="p1">Din felt wisps of a headache coming. He had lost track of time, he bitterly thought. He recalled getting little sleep on his trip from the Concord Dawn’s orbit to Nevarro, and he hadn’t slept at all on the trip on Gideon’s captured Light Cruiser before that, on the way to the Concord Dawn moon. He was exhausted. His muscles were unraveling. The pain in his bones were throbbing. A Mandalorian’s prime supposedly could go all the way up to their fifties, but Din suddenly felt like a pile of tenuous eggshells.</p><p class="p1">“Uh… <em>Mando?</em>”</p><p class="p1">Something snapped within Din a little, and at once, his keen presence of mind jolted back and he whipped his hand to the sheath of his blaster as his head whipped to the direction of the voice.</p><p class="p1">“Oh—oh geez, <em>geez</em> Mando!” came the half-panicked, half-startled shriek… and it sounded familiar.</p><p class="p1">The haze in his brain was gone, and Din saw the blue, bloaty face of the Mythrol who worked the years of his sentence away under Greef’s service. The Mythrol’s eyes were wide, and he seemed about to emit a puff of musk under that stress.</p><p class="p1">“<em>You—</em>“ Din relaxed, but irritation swelled in him.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry, sorry,” the Mythrol muttered quakily. “Wait—so it <em>is</em> you, Mando? Like—Mando-with-the-green-kid-Mando?”</p><p class="p1">Din suppressed a frown. “What do you want?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, oh I knew I recognized that little doohickey creature on your pauldron anywhere!” the Mythrol said excitedly.</p><p class="p1">Din pointed firmly at the signet for the Mythrol to see. “This,” he proclaimed surly, “is a mudhorn.”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol stood there for a while, amused and with some anticipation on his blue face. He was carrying his tray of food, and with a quick mental sweep of the cantina, Din figured that all tables were taken and the Mythrol was hoping for someone to share a table with.</p><p class="p1">“Fine,” Din grumbled, and he motioned the Mythrol to take the seat across him.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you… oh man, I thought I’d end up eating by the back alley again with the womp rats. I mean, when the cantina’s all full.” The Mythrol plopped upon the bench like a balloon, and with as much grace as a Jawa with yolks, he dipped a fin-like paw to his soup and helped himself.</p><p class="p1">“Your meal, um, sir—“ the server appeared, with a plate full of deep-fried <em>things</em> Din couldn’t exactly make out, and a full loaf of bread to go with it, as well as tankard of water.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded his thanks, slid off his gloves, and began to literally break bread when—</p><p class="p1">“Greef’s right, you’re one handsome-lookin’ fella!” the Mythrol interrupted cheerfully, the slurp in his words palpable.</p><p class="p1">Din figured it would be one of his longest suppers ever.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you,” Din said flatly, and tried his best to eat in silence. He vaguely remembered the face of his biological father—traces of the man being sharply handsome—in fact, Din knew, in the sparse instances he saw his face’s reflection when he was alone, that he resembled his father. Din couldn’t even recall his name. The memory of it dissipated so long ago.</p><p class="p1">“N-not that it means anything,” choked the Mythrol in immediate defense. “I like Mythrol women!” he squeaked wetly as he chewed on the soup.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded absently. “<em>Okaay….</em>” The deep-fried something was rubbery as he chewed.</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol halted his meal for a moment. “‘xcuse me,” he hiccoughed. “I need to take fifteen-minute breaks between slurpings. Helps a great deal with digestion.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s lips formed a line. Fifteen minutes of unoccupied Mythrol was about to assault him with small talk.</p><p class="p1">“I know it’s not my place to ask—“ began the Mythrol.</p><p class="p1">Din sighed. “Just <em>ask</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“What’re you going to do now? I mean—you’re, um, you’re—“ the Mythrol made a small clockwise gesture around his own cerulean face as he eyed the beskar helmet by the corner of the table.</p><p class="p1">Din was slightly startled with the Mythrol’s impertinence, but now that the Mythrol mentioned it, Din knew deep inside that he hadn’t had an answer for that yet. The meat between his teeth felt like more like lead now.</p><p class="p1">“I really don’t know,” Din replied, sincerely. “But I know I’ve got to think of a plan fast.”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol nodded a few times, like an eager student in class. “Well…” The blue humanoid seemed to hesitate.</p><p class="p1">Din fixed him a <em>look</em>. “Just <em>tell</em> me.” He noted the impatience in his own tone.</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol’s voice fell to a hush and he leaned forward, as though to share a secret. Din cautiously moved closer.</p><p class="p1">“You know, there’s rumors about you. I mean, it’s not widespread or anything, but people are talking.”</p><p class="p1">Din knew better than to condone any sort of gossipmongering, but he urged the Mythrol anyway, “Go on.”</p><p class="p1">“Rumors about the metal giant with the doohickey—er—yeah, mudhorn symbol…”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Giant</em>?” Din smirked. People do love exaggerations to their tales.</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol looked as though he struggled to piece long strings of testimonies together. “I’ll say it outright, Mando—people think you’re a hero. Well, not all of them, but a <em>lot</em> of them. Been hearing more good things than bad. I mean—did you really help slay that Krayt Dragon?” The Mythrol quivered at the thought. “Boy. Oh <em>boy</em>. They said you help save a dying vilage in the middle of nowhere. Yet people got their news. See? People get their news, no matter how.”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol paused, and for a moment Din thought the fifteen minutes were up and the Mythrol would have a go at his meal again. But then he continued, as though in a frenzied trance, still hushedly:</p><p class="p1">“And then you helped save another village from a cruel magistrate and her <em>army </em>(Din raised a brow). I mean—you should listen to the tattle sometimes, Mando! I mean, yeah—you were out and about, and all, but… Mando, see here, you gotta<em> listen</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t want to sound patronizing when he uttered, “I’m listening.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re helping people out, Mando,” the Mythrol blurted. “I mean, sure—you do some bounty hunting. Shady business here and there. But the stories were mostly all good, sounding like all nice praises.” The Mythrol flashed his amphibuous smile. “It’s no secret that you usually bring in bounties <em>warm</em>. You don’t kill if you really don’ have to.”</p><p class="p1">Silence reigned for a few seconds.</p><p class="p1">Din broke eye contact with the Mythrol as he took a sip from his tankard. “I was only doing my job. Is that all?”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol scoffed. “Is that all? <em>Is that all</em>, he says!” He cleared his throat slushily, as he continued to digest the soup. “Mando—Greef says since the old Mandalorian Covert is gone—“</p><p class="p1">Din’s ears perked, his heart suddenly pounding hard, but he chose to not openly react.</p><p class="p1">“—Well, Oh—see, I got this conscience thing going on to, so I have to <em>confess</em>, Mando, I was here when it happened. When those Imps attacked the Covert.”</p><p class="p1">Din forced calming breaths upon himself, but his jaw had most certainly tightened. He still held the tankard close to his face so his expression remained half in darkness.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t see it with my own eyes, but I<em> felt </em>it. I think Greef even did, but like everyone, we thought it was just some untimely earthquake. I mean, Nevarro’s lava flats do act up from time to time. But—it was <em>rumbling </em>underneath our feet. Like—there was a heated struggle, you know? A good, solid rumbling for about half an hour. No one knew a Covert existed until well—until you decided to take the little green baby and whisk him away to safety…”</p><p class="p1">Din knew he had lost his appetite completely, yet he patiently waited for the Mythrol to finish his story.</p><p class="p1">“Then before we knew it, the city was overrun by Imps. By golly. I thought we’d all get shot then and there! But they just wanted—wanted the Covert. I guess… I guess you know what happened to them, right?”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol slowly turned to him. Din’s eyes flitted to catch a quick glimpse of the Mythrol’s expression, and was strangely moved by the genuine sadness in the blue creature’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">Din slowly nodded.</p><p class="p1">“I’m—I’m so <em>sorry</em>.” Then, the Mythol perked as quickly as he dipped. “But your kid is safe! He’s all safe, right? Well, if you ask me, the kid choosing you isn’t coincidence. I dunno—Mythrol senses can sometimes get hyperactive and <em>know</em> things, but… the kid chose you because he trusted you, right off the bat. Because I guess…” He swallowed a lump with much effort. “He knew you had a good heart. Through and through.”</p><p class="p1">Din glowered. “I’ve done far worse things than gutting a man <em>alive</em>. I do<em> not </em>have a good heart.”</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol, in that precious, jitter-free instant, replied stubbornly: “Well, I think there’s still a hell lot more <em>you</em> need to know about yourself, and I mean no disrespect, Mando.”</p><p class="p1">Din just about had enough for the night. He threw in a few credits on the table for his meal and the server’s tip, collected his helmet, and made a motion to leave.</p><p class="p1">“Have yourself a good night, Mythrol.” His voice was unperturbed in spite of the emotions storming within him.</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol hurriedly squawked, “Well, if it’s of any worth—I’d like to thank you for sparing me, ‘bringing in me warm.’” He then let out a nervous laugh.</p><p class="p1">Din fought not to look back at the Mythrol as he trudged to the exit, but took a small moment to tell the Mythrol: “As I said—I was only doing my job.”</p><p class="p1">And he was out of the cantina door.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Din furiously made his way to the sandy expanse beyond Nevarro’s port gate, and for the first time after a dormant period of numbness, he was very, very <em>angry </em>with himself.</p><p class="p1">His strides kicked out dusty clouds. The Lambda-type shuttle lay parked there with its wings neatly folded, a distance away, gleaming underneath Nevarro’s creamy moon.</p><p class="p1">The sand flew to his face, settled on the skin of his cheeks.</p><p class="p1">Din made for his transport vehicle. He could say goodbye to Greef via the comms before he did the jump to hyperspace. But he needed some way out of this anguish. He felt so cornered. So <em>trapped</em>. He detested with a passion how helplessness felt like.</p><p class="p1">He was close to the shuttle door and was about to reach out for the control panel to open up the ramp, when he quickly caught sight of a hunched figure in the shadows, underneath his ship—a<em>s though it were tinkering with something</em>.</p><p class="p1">Din’s alertness rose into high gear. Quickly, he drew his blaster at the figure, with all intent to fire should this unknown creature prove itself a threat.</p><p class="p1">“What are you <em>doing</em>?” he demanded in an authoritative growl.</p><p class="p1">The figure was startled, and ran to away from the shadows, into further shadow, but Din was quicker—he had fired a shot close to its indistinguishable feet—</p><p class="p1">The creature gave a shrill squeal, much to Din’s exasperation; what caught him scantly off-guard was that the creature itself drew a pistol and <em>fired back</em>.</p><p class="p1">Din’s shielding reflexes with his vambraces deflected the pistol fire. He swiftly aimed amidst the oppressing darkness, and fired again.</p><p class="p1">The creature gave a pained shriek—it flopped, did a small grotesque dance, fell to the sand, and was still.</p><p class="p1">Din stood there, his fury diffused from himself onto what had just occurred.</p><p class="p1">The brief skirmish had urgently alerted patrol. A group of enforcers made their way towards him, the shuttle, and the lifeless body of the creature he had just shot down as the landing port burst to life. Lights were suddenly everywhere.</p><p class="p1">“What’s all this about?” a voice demanded—one of the patrol people.</p><p class="p1">Din set his helmet and blaster down, carefully, out of protocol only, and placed his hands over his head to mark himself a non-threat.</p><p class="p1">“That thing tried to get to my ship,” Din explained.</p><p class="p1">He felt a small wave of dizziness. Too many people—too many people have seen his face. In his armor, with his countenance, he is more than recognizable now. He had been exposed for far too long, and all else no longer mattered.</p><p class="p1">The patrollers—some of them bearing the New Republic stripes, trotted to the creature, and one bent over to inspect it.</p><p class="p1">“Hey—this is the Mimbanese. That ship repair guy…” one of them began, discerning familiarity towards the creature.</p><p class="p1">Din’s brow furrowed.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Ship repair guy?</em>
</p><p class="p1">He recalled that one of the mechanics who Greef called out and sought help from for repairs on his now long-gone Razor Crest had been a Mimbanese—a creature with gelatinous globes for eyes, with rough, terra cotta skins.</p><p class="p1">So Moff Gideon did trace him and Grogu down to Tython through a tracker on the Razor Crest planted by one of the Moff’s spies. Din gathered in a huge breath. Those damn <em>kriffers </em>had slithered their way in, completely avoiding Marshall Cara Dune’s iron grip and into Greef Karga’s employ.</p><p class="p1">Din closed his eyes tight, ever so briefly, truly acknowledging the fact that there was no longer any place safe in the galaxy, even after the so-called fall of the Empire.</p><p class="p1">The Empire, perhaps, had never really fallen. It just tripped face-first unto the dust awhile, and was making its way back up more quickly than any of them could have supposed.</p><p class="p1">Din grit his teeth so hard, he split a lip and a thread of blood trickled down his unshaven chin.</p><p class="p1">“WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THIS?” rumbled Greef Karga, in a visible, shocked rage.</p><p class="p1">The magistrate had taken note of the fray. When Greef saw Din, the man quickly made gestures for the patrol to lower their firearms.</p><p class="p1">“Now shove those things away out to the other direction, huh?” Greef cried out irritably. “This man is innocent. Now take that filth away!” Greef frantically motioned at the dead Mimbanese’s body.</p><p class="p1">“Right away, sir!”</p><p class="p1">Din’s body relaxed somewhat, and observed, with some amusement the patrol’s eagerness to obey the magistrate in the most orderly manner as they can muster.</p><p class="p1">Greef Karga was then before him, and the magistrate had both his palms warmly, quite protectively, over Din’s shoulders.</p><p class="p1">“You all right, Djarin?” Greef inquired of him in visible worry.</p><p class="p1">Din was astounded. There was sincere concern in the magistrate’s eyes. Perhaps the memory of Din nearly losing his life in the hands of Gideon’s troops right at this very city still haunted the older man.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, yes. I’m all right,” Din assured him. In a rare display of warmth, Din gripped Greef’s gloved hands firmly planted on his shoulders and gave them a resolute squeeze. “I’m fine.”</p><p class="p1">“Good,” Greef remarked in tense relief. “That’s damn <em>good</em> to hear…”</p><p class="p1">“I’m a Mandalorian, Karga. I won’t go down easily.”</p><p class="p1">The commotion of taking the dead Mimbanese away as the patrollers inspected the surrounding area as well as the underbelly of the Lambda-type shuttle didn’t faze Greef one bit.</p><p class="p1">In fact, the magistrate’s eyes were wide, and had a pleased twinkle in them.</p><p class="p1">“Say that again, Djarin,” Greef prodded, with a growing spurt of jubilation.</p><p class="p1">“Say what…?”</p><p class="p1">Greef’s eyebrows slanted upwards in playful warning.</p><p class="p1">Din shook his head in mock defeat, chuckled, and gave his friend’s hands which were still upon his shoulders another squeeze.</p><p class="p1">“I’m a <em>Mandalorian</em>.” Din took a deep breath. “I think that was the part you wanted to hear, Karga.”</p><p class="p1">There was clear jubilation in Greef’s eyes now. “Well, now. If you say so,” the man intoned jokingly, but Din could sense that Greef caught him, red-handed, with the answer to his own confused state of mind, which he had been languishing in only some moments before.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Damn</em> <em>you</em>,” Din told Greef with just enough affection for the magistrate to burst out laughing.</p><p class="p1">“Well—I’m not sure if that settled it for you, but,” Greef’s face grew a serious, “now we know that we’re not really out of the woods yet. We still sure have a hell lot of cleaning to do in this city. <em>Dank</em> all those <em>farriks</em>.” Greef sputtered loudly, in awe of the work that they still had to do yet again.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">It was not even first light, but Din found himself at the very center of the Covert’s cold forge chamber, right before the circular mouth of the forge.</p><p class="p1">He let the silence in, the curves of the chamber dome, suddenly immense, towering over him.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Honor is life, for with no honor one may as well be dead.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">Din recited a line from the Mandalorian Code he had known by rote, taught by his armor-clad teachers and armor-clad family… before they all fell away in the Purge and the tragedies before it.</p><p class="p1">It was a Code as sacred as the Way, but at this moment, it was that very line which he found the strength to say, aloud, in the glimmering pale light of the forge chamber.</p><p class="p1">Din reached for his pauldron, almost absently. His gloved fingers traced the mudhorn signet. Clan Of Two.</p><p class="p1">Gathering an adamantine dose of will, Din took his helmet in both his hands, and he bowed his head, slowly, sacronsanctly—and in one motion, he slid his helmet over it, the all-too-familiar beskar cocoon making its way home once more, around the walls of his face. There was a small hiss, and it clicked closed.</p><p class="p1">The helmet came to life—miniscule lights blinked on, the familiar sounds of its technology whirring in his ears, and the regulated vision behind his visor greeted him once again.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>The Way was not the only way.</em>
</p><p class="p1">He reached behind his jetpack, the darksaber almost forgotten, and he drew it out. He ignited it, and for the first time since acquiring it through violent combat, he briefly admired the blade.</p><p class="p1">It buzzed and fizzled and reeked of power; it sang its whistling song of many victories and deaths.</p><p class="p1">When his pondering was over, he clipped the darksaber back to his jetpack.</p><p class="p1">The Whistling Birds were still there, unsullied and unused, patiently waiting for a bearer. The scans from his helmet showed no threat from the beskar cartridges, and in one smooth wave of motion, the Whistling Birds found a new nest in the outer pockets of his vambraces. His old ones have been spent entirely, and if these new ones were but a mere coincidence, he would find out someday.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">The Mythrol was tasked in such in an unjust manner to sweep the back alleys, after he did the tedious work of filing the various ship codes that docked this morning upon Nervarro.</p><p class="p1">Just as he began a series of mumbling, muttering, and further complaining, he caught a glimpse of a Lambda-type shuttle taking off to the skies overhead, from the landing port outside the city gates.</p><p class="p1">It was the Mandalorian, the Mythrol knew.</p><p class="p1">Squinting against the sun as he watched the shuttle hover and make its way out into the atmosphere, the Mythrol lifted the broom before him, unto the sky, as though in salute.</p><p class="p1">“Well, good luck, Mando,” he said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not really familiar with the Mythrol species as they seem to be a new species with a Wookieepedia entry. xD So I took the liberty of making up some stuff about their digestion, etc. :P  And I'm also not sure if the mechanic that planted the tracker on the Razor Crest on Chapter 12 was an Aqualish, but looked similar. EDIT: The species is actually Mimbanese. Somehow I came across the info and I was like Oohhh gotta make corrections! xD</p><p> As always, thank you so much for reading, and for the kudos and comments! I'll be grateful for any feedback, and I'd certainly reply back! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Bare Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din returns to Bo-Katan and the rest of the Mandalorians on the Concord Dawn sector, knowing well that what awaited him would be inevitable.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Allow me this indulgence of playing in my little sandbox of thoughts and theories of what I'd think, like, and wish could and maybe would happen on Season 3 onwards. xD I admire (and yep, envy *sad noises*) Jon Favreau's and Dave Filoni's masterful storytelling, and I'd like to challenge myself to rise to a standard close to theirs, even if I know I am an unworthy potato. :( Anyway, on with the fic! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 4: Bare Bones</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">The warble and hiss of the hyperspace tunnel kept Din’s senses intact. In less than a few minutes, he would be within the reaches of Concord Dawn.</p><p class="p3">Din faintly remembered the name when Bo-Katan casually mentioned it to him on his first trip to its orbit. The letters <em>Concord Dawn</em> were spelled out on the chain code of Boba Fett’s armor.</p><p class="p3">The thought of it flitted away as quickly as it came. The sound of an incoming transmission met his ears. He reached for the switch to activate it.</p><p class="p3">The crackling blue haze of Axe Woves’ likeness, torso up, lit the space in front of him, atop the cockpit’s panel controls.</p><p class="p3">“Djarin. I got your signal. Back so soon?” came the other Mandalorian’s voice fused with static. There was a hint of both disbelief and reprieve.</p><p class="p3">Din, now—and <em>still</em>—helmeted, turned to the gauzy apparition.</p><p class="p3">“I’ve kept my word,” he riposted tersely.</p><p class="p3">If Axe had taken note of the fact that Din’s face was once again masked underneath the beskar, the other man made no remark. Din handed it over to Axe—the man can make himself unreadable if he wanted to.</p><p class="p3">“Very well, then,” Axe relented. “Once you’re out of the jump and within the moon’s orbit, an escort will meet you there.”</p><p class="p3">“Copy that,” Din answered. The transmission dissolved and was gone.</p><p class="p3">In about three-seconds’ distance apart, the beep of another transmission followed suit. It was from another channel, and Din took caution in receiving it.</p><p class="p3">It was not a hologram like Woves’, but an audio message, simply recorded and sent to him for playback.</p><p class="p3">It was Cara Dune’s purposeful voice.</p><p class="p3">“Mando—Din,” she began.</p><p class="p3">Din sat there in silence.</p><p class="p3">“Karga filled me in with what happened back on Nevarro.” Frustration seeped into her tone. “Looks like we really still have our work cut out for us. Anyway—he also said you’ve made your way back to the Mandalorian sector... well, at least close to it, like what Bo-Katan said.”</p><p class="p3">There was a pause.</p><p class="p3">Din spent a minute closing his eyes, allowing his senses which were amplified by the helmet to gather any auditory clues on where she might be transmitting from.</p><p class="p3">Nothing.</p><p class="p3">“Everything’s suddenly happening so fast,” Cara continued, her voice laced with awe. “Din—the New Republic thinks someone of my skill… is needed more in bigger places. I’ve been promoted to Special Enforcement.” A small, amused laugh. “I guess Nevarro wouldn’t be the only planet within my jurisdiction.” A brief and tense silence followed. Din remained still and listened.Cara’s voice surfaced after a while. “I’m sorry if that’s all I can tell you for now. Good luck, buddy. Please be well.”</p><p class="p3">The transmission ended and made no further cues that the call could be returned.</p><p class="p3">Din sighed; he further reclined into his seat. He knew he should be happy for Cara; she seemed to have found her place in the grander scheme of things. However, he also noted how she hesitated, as though there was something—or many things—holding her back.</p><p class="p3">Soon, darkness encased the cockpit as the Lambda shuttle burst its way out of hyperspace. Time seemed to stand still. Din leaned forward from the cushioned pilot seat, reluctantly marveling at the sight before him.</p><p class="p3">Faintly half-hidden behind the spherical glow of the moon were the shadowed remnants of a splintered planet, rocks like empty coffins afloat, frozen in time, as though the planet had tried to keep itself intact but failed miserably midway.</p><p class="p3">
  <em>Was that pocket of debris once a planet called Concord Dawn? </em>
</p><p class="p3">
  <em>How did the planet Mandalore, then, fare compared to this?</em>
</p><p class="p3">Shaking himself out of a bout of moroseness, Din started moving around to flick switches as the shuttle began to descend.</p><p class="p3">As soon as the landing maneuver began and he entered atmosphere, six intensely flaring strands bolted out from the dense fog, all in formation. One by one, they encircled the Lambda shuttle: these were Mandalorians on jetpacks.</p><p class="p3">One of them cruised close to the side of cockpit window, and with a wide gesture, hailed him.</p><p class="p3">Din returned the gesture, raising a hand to acknowledge it as he peered outside.</p><p class="p3">The sun which lit a part of the sector was high in the sky, yet fog ate at the flight path before him. Syrupy clouds that swirled blue, purple, and faint orange engulfed the Lambda and his escort as they forged on. These Mandalorians seemed too familiar with such conditions.</p><p class="p3">Two of his escort went ahead and blasted their way forward and low, then hovered above a clearing where they instructed him to land.</p><p class="p3">Din obliged.</p><p class="p3">He had no other belongings to gather from within the shuttle, so he set out to exit the vehicle at once. The ramp lowered and he trudged his way down with no fanfare whatsoever.</p><p class="p3">A wide, sprawling expanse of rock, crater, and gorge filled his vision. The fog had lifted and everything was suddenly blindingly bright. His helmet optics adjusted accordingly.</p><p class="p3">“Sir,” said a young female voice.</p><p class="p3">He turned to one of the helmeted six from his escort. They had formed a semi-circle some paces in front of him.</p><p class="p3">Din wordlessly nodded.</p><p class="p3">A landspeeder with a faded paint job rolled in. Din could hardly make out the words written in <em>Mando’a, </em>which had cracked and peeled on the vehicle’s side.</p><p class="p3">Din had not forgotten his Mando’a, even if he hardly spoke it anymore, as the Covert had reverted to almost purely Galactic Basic. He could make out the name of some old transport manufacturer on the speeder, but it felt like shaking the memory of the dead.</p><p class="p3">“Sir,” one of the young voices that surrounded him urged him back to his senses. He was to embark on this landspeeder.</p><p class="p3">Din clambered on, and one of the Mandalorians followed and took a seat behind him. Other than the speeder pilot, he and this companion had the landspeeder to themselves. The others flew alongside on their jetpacks as they blazed their way to wherever they needed to take him.</p><p class="p3">This moon was a barren wasteland.</p><p class="p3">While the atmosphere was stable, there was an overall cynicism blanketing <em>everything</em>. Grey rock, black rock, a bit of yellow and red, unveiling around him, and Din wondered how could they have built a secret stronghold on a place that could seem to hardly sustain life.</p><p class="p3">He felt the landspeeder quickly descend, and Din craned his head a little.</p><p class="p3">“Almost there, sir,” came a frequency in his ear. It was the speeder pilot. Yet another young voice—at least he thought it was. Sometimes, he could determine a being’s age with their voices. There was always something achingly new and awkward about a voice still devoid of life’s treachery.</p><p class="p3">“All right,” Din replied.</p><p class="p3">Their speed decelerated a little as they passed through a canyon that flew them a straight path, and shadows loomed, as canopy upon canopy sped above their heads.</p><p class="p3">That was when Din saw the small receptacles of civilization etched in between the cracks of various-sized craters. A dozen tents here, a few there, cubby-holed within—close enough to the sun, yet sheltered from the winds.</p><p class="p3">Din stiffened when he caught sight of a crater many feet deeper than the rest. Something told him that was where they had hid the Gozanti freighter along with the shipment boxes of weapons which they had begun distributing amongst themselves. The only downside was that most of the weapons were still of Imperial-make. A blaster common among Stormtroopers were slung on the shoulders of the two who sat with him. </p><p class="p3">The landspeeder finally halted at a clearing, buttressed by even more canyons as many tendrils and poles of light peeked through the huge cracks surrounding them.</p><p class="p3">Din leapt out of the landspeeder. He didn’t even hide the fact that he was holding his head up, making sweeping turns like a child observing his first parade in wonder.</p><p class="p3">Axe Woves was the familiar face that met him by the mouth of a wider receptacle from where the speeder had parked. The other Mandalorian promptly slid his helmet off and cradled it by his side.</p><p class="p3">“Djarin,” the man greeted him. The warm civility in Axe’s voice astounded Din for a moment. He had been used to the subtle condescension of Bo-Katan and her ilk ever since their encounter on Trask.</p><p class="p3">“Woves,” Din returned, and they firmly clasped forearms.</p><p class="p3">As an afterthought, Din took a moment to slide his own helmet off. Suddenly he was once again eye to eye with Axe—who seemed to be one of Bo-Katan’s lieutenants.</p><p class="p3">Axe nodded, as though in understanding. “Now you know that the Way of the Mandalore does not keep a single creed,” the man finally asserted in his steely drawl.</p><p class="p3">Din cast him a sideways glance as they both walked abreast to one of the larger tents tethered to the cold dark rock beneath their feet.</p><p class="p3">“The Children of the Watch had known <em>only</em> one,” Din answered, in equal volume, “all their lives.”</p><p class="p3">If there was a sliver of sympathy in Axe’s expression, it dissipated immediately as he nodded to two Mandalorian guards by the tent’s main flap, and with some precision, the two lifted the flap, and in went Axe and Din—as Axe, with contained courtesy, allowed Din to enter first.</p><p class="p3">They were greeted by a small gathering of Mandalorians: there was Koska Reeves, shoulders hunched, uncharacteristic of her usually proud stance. Beside her was a strikingly tall, dark-skinned young man, wearing armor of muted orange and gunmetal grey; and lastly, a woman of many years older than anyone in the tent, the silver of her hair styled up in braids. She did not wear full armor like everyone else in the room, but he could tell that she had authority—perhaps even <em>over </em>Bo-Katan—to an extent.</p><p class="p3">They were huddled around a low, nondescript table, as though in conference before Axe delivered Din to them. All heads looked up wearily. There, at the head of the table was Bo-Katan, the fiery red of her hair glimmering sickly in the low, liquid indoor light.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan looked as exhausted as the rest, but her eyes were hard and sharp, and were looking straight at Din.</p><p class="p3">"So you decided your path," she hoarsely declared, with calculated wonderment. “But I’m surprised you didn’t just go and take off with my Darksaber,”</p><p class="p3">Din held his breath. He wouldn’t let this woman get into his nerves, yet the words that came out of his mouth belied that intention. “Pretty talk for someone who’s left me in the dark on every plot you’ve strung me into so far,” he called out gruffly.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan’s mouth hardened, and Koska lifted her head, eyes ablaze. But Axe, not roughly, wrangled Din’s arm for a second, almost unfelt, as though trying to keep the precarious peace between him and the two Nite Owls.</p><p class="p3">The elderly Mandalorian woman was now looking at Bo-Katan in obvious chastisement.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan heaved a sigh that grated over Din’s very bones. She closed her eyes, and in a moment’s display of vulnerability, she swept a hand over her hair in helplessness and frustration.</p><p class="p3">“You’re right,” she said at last. She opened her eyes, their color like deep verdant marbles, then she shot a tired, stern look at Din. “I was wrong not to tell you everything… as it cost <em>me</em> everything.”</p><p class="p3">“Lady Kryze,” said the elderly woman in suppressed displeasure. “I had hoped it was against your better judgment to take advantage of the apparent ignorance of this young warrior before us.”</p><p class="p3">Din flinched at the words <em>young warrior</em>. No one has ever called him that before—while he was once a warrior, he was more of a <em>hunter</em> now, and no longer as young as he wanted to be. Somehow those words caught him off-guard more so than <em>apparent ignorance,</em> to his own amusement.</p><p class="p3">She shook her head stubbornly despite her acquiescence. “Fine. Please accept my apologies, Din Djarin. Because of my lack of better judgement, you are now an unwilling victor of the Darksaber, therefore an unwilling ruler of Mandalore…”</p><p class="p3">“Now hold just a second there.” Din found that he needed to interrupt her at that instant. In one smooth motion, he plucked the Darksaber from its clip on his jetpack. His movements were casual enough to keep anyone from suspecting him of aggression, and when he had a hold of the hilt, he ignited the Darksaber.</p><p class="p3">How could he forget its hum and howl? The Darksaber was like a living thing in his hands, about to strike and coil, but he held it fast.</p><p class="p3">“Unwilling? Maybe,” Din said. Without his helmet’s modulator, his voice lacked the intensity he had wished to assert. “Yet you’d refused to take it when I offered it to you. What is the story behind this? What has Gideon been trying to say?” Din <em>hated</em> how the mention of the very name slid between his teeth.</p><p class="p3">There was a low buzz in the room. Suddenly, everyone was uneasy—Axe, Koska, the young Mandalorian, and the elderly one, her face like stone, still visibly displeased with the turn of events. Bo-Katan precipitously bowed her head with her jaw set.</p><p class="p3">To his surprise, when Bo-Katan lifted her face again, her eyes had considerably softened. “Sometimes I forget that you were but a child when I was already fighting my way through the Clone Wars,” she whispered, but loud enough for all in the tent to hear.</p><p class="p3">“What’s your point?” Din demanded, voice taut. He had lowered his arm so the Darksaber’s tip nearly touched the floor. “Why won’t you answer my question?”</p><p class="p3">“So much has happened,” Bo-Katan continued, her hushed voice cracking in growing fatigue, ignoring Din’s demand. For a moment Din thought that she was speaking to herself as her face lost some more of its usual brazenness. “So many have gone. And I stand here—yet I am nothing. I am <em>no one</em>.”</p><p class="p3">Din didn’t know what to say, and how to say it. Bo-Katan seemed to have lost herself in a moment’s wave of crippling grief. She was being too unguarded before her supposed usurper to the Mandalorian throne.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan drew herself to her full height.</p><p class="p3">To Din’s surprise, she made her way towards him; the orange-and-gunmetal clad Mandalorian and Koska slid out of her path.</p><p class="p3">Din did not feel any threat emanating from her at that moment, so he held his position; however, without his helmet on, he knew that Bo-Katan saw the <em>confusion</em> in his eyes. He was very susceptible to scrutiny now.</p><p class="p3">She now stood before him, but he towered nearly a handspan over her, so he lowered his head to meet her eye to eye. His gaze didn’t flinch. He was torn with growing respect alongside ghastly revulsion for this Mandalorian warrior who gazed back at him with muffled pain in her eyes.</p><p class="p3">“At first light tomorrow, Din Djarin,” Bo-Katan carefully enunciated, “We decide the fate of Mandalore. Know that I <em>challenge</em> you for the Darksaber, but I will <em>win</em> it through proper ritual combat.”</p><p class="p3">Din kept holding her gaze ever so steadily. There was no other way to conclude this, and he had expected it. He had returned to them to face the fate that lay not only before him, but for a people and a creed he knew was ever bigger than the Way that he had been raised in.</p><p class="p3">When he nodded, he barely felt his own head move. The sound of the Darksaber hummed as he sheathed its ghost-black blade to its beskar hilt.</p><p class="p3">“First light,” he whispered, low and solemn. “I accept.”</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The setting is the same moon where Fenn Rau, the Mandalorian Protector in "Rebels," set his camp which had been destroyed by Gar Saxon. Just a small footnote there. :P </p><p>Thank you for reading! As always, would love and appreciate all the kudos and the feedback! &lt;3 You guys have been wonderful so far! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. In Every Child, A Soldier</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While Din prepares for the following morning’s fateful match, an unexpected visitor comes to inspect him with a volley of questions in tow.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yup, I know it's confusing with the chapter titles... like the chapters are all pushed forward coz I added a prologue. :P Anyway, we must carry on! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">
  <b>Chapter 5: In Every Child, A Soldier</b>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">There were still many hours to prepare before first light of the next day.</p><p class="p4">Din had been escorted to a small, otherwise empty tent save for a cot and a table, both weathered and chipped at the far end of the room. It was a tent some distance away from Bo-Katan’s but within their clear range of vision.</p><p class="p4">Did they think he would attempt <em>anything</em> while he was still, somehow, at their mercy, despite being the current wielder of this so-called fabled Darksaber?</p><p class="p4">Din was thoroughly bone-weary, and his head still spun from the events since sending Grogu off to his future with the Jedi. He then decided to take it upon himself to preoccupy his mind while waiting for the appointed hour of combat against the rightful <em>heiress</em> of Mandalore.</p><p class="p4">He set his helmet down reverently upon the table right at the foot of the cot, peeled the jetpack off his back and carefully leaned it upon the table’s legs. Finally, he unclipped the Darksaber from atop the jetpack, deliberately measuring its weight for the first time since winning it. </p><p class="p4">Despite being an ancient weapon, as Bo-Katan had said—which could be some millennia old, the hilt of pure beskar remained pristine. The ridges were smooth, untarnished, and <em>very</em> cold.</p><p class="p4">He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember how he had managed to ignite it in the first place. The Darksaber didn’t exactly have a definite switch, but when he willed it to come to life, a pillar of darkness sprung from a hollowness deep within the hilt, darker than the shadows around him. Curling around the blade were very fine veins of light, pulsating like many tiny hearts.</p><p class="p4">He observed it for a while, entranced.</p><p class="p4">He swung it tentatively, studying the solidness of its craftsmanship.</p><p class="p4">Instinctively, he bent his body into an attack position, and he thrust the Darksaber towards an unseen enemy. The weapon sang its low, metallic symphony.</p><p class="p4">Din didn’t quite understand this power yet—but he was beginning to <em>feel</em> it.</p><p class="p4">He swung it again with more surety. Another stroke, another brandish—he was starting to become mesmerized with how the blade rippled and contrasted greatly with the luminescence of the room.</p><p class="p4">He practiced another thrust, minding his footwork. He swung a huge arc, twirled the blade and it satisfyingly catered to his movements. He realized how the blade—which was notably heavier earlier on, started to ease itself to a more comfortable weight, almost lighter than he initially anticipated.</p><p class="p4"><em>“What did I tell you, Din? Just focus,”</em> came an echo at the back of his mind.</p><p class="p4">A peculiar somnolence overcame him, yet he fought for altertness, but suddenly the world around him shifted—</p><p class="p4">And he was upon a field of sparse grass, but grass grew between small cracks of earth, nevertheless, where this dream decided to take him.</p><p class="p4">Din realized that he was standing still, and one of his arms was fully outstretched, but it was a tiny arm—the arm of a child. His hand was gripping something tightly, something cold and heavy, and his dream-eyes came to rest upon the <em>beskad, </em>a sword-like weapon which the Mandalorians of the Fighting Corps had brought back to their arsenal, despite swords being all but obsolete.</p><p class="p4">Din blinked his eyes, felt the tremble in his arms as the weight of the<em> beskad</em> tugged at his outstretched arm. He fought back tears, straining, fearing that the sword would fall and he would need to start over.</p><p class="p4">He was twelve years old again. His adoptive father had taken him to start early with the drills as they have done, without fail, every single day in a span of a little over two years, since this very man had rescued him from the clutches of certain death—death which had claimed his birth parents.</p><p class="p4">“Din,” called the tall Mandalorian by his side.</p><p class="p4">Din spun halfway around.</p><p class="p4">It was the man who had taken him in, a man whose face he had never seen up to that point—only the helmeted visor donned in faded foam blue, re-painted over with a faint wash of white, with some gold—but it was the dark, T-shaped film which Din caught himself staring at.</p><p class="p4">“Focus,” the man instructed, in a voice Din felt was a lifetime away. “And do<em> not</em> simply swing blindly. Aim for a target and hit it. Remember, son. Every blow you deal upon your enemy has to have <em>purpose</em>.”</p><p class="p4">His twelve-year-old self nodded. A new weight bore on his shoulders, and the world grew a bit darker. A helmet seemed to have materalized around his head.</p><p class="p4">Din remembered that a Mandalorian helmet which fit a child’s head had been crafted especially for him to practice with. He was to wear it for as long as twelve hours a day, and stretch it to an hour more, and another, until an entire day had passed—even in sleep—up to the definitive time he had mustered all will to not itch into taking it off.</p><p class="p4">He had still been allowed to take off the helmet as a child, as these Mandalorians continuously raised him, but once he turned thirteen—the year when Mandalorians came of age—he would swear the Creed, and don a helmet on forever. He was not to ever take it off, even in death… and <em>beyond</em> death, if that was even possible.</p><p class="p4">Din closed his eyes. This dream-world—was it but a piece of memory? His exhaustion appeared to have brought him to the comfort of a time before everything had become so bafflingly complicated. There was the heat of the wind, the smell of burnt grass, and the smell of beskar baking under the sun, as he quiveringly held the sword made of such material before him—</p><p class="p4">“Now, aim, Din. Aim true, and <em>kill—</em>“</p><p class="p4">There was a roar in his ears as everything dissolved around him: the dream-world, the <em>beskad</em> in his hand, the ground below his feet, and his father by his side, all gone. Din blinked, and he was back in the tent on this desolate moon filled with seemingly abandoned hopes.</p><p class="p4">Din gripped the Darksaber again, testingly, observing how it grew heavier once again. What was the mystery caged within this artifact? What did Moff Gideon want from this shard of Mandalorian history that he took only to keep for himself—until someone came and fought it off his hands again?</p><p class="p4">His musing came to a screeching halt when a loud <em>bang </em>that had come from the tent entrance assaulted his ears.</p><p class="p4">It was so abrupt that Din had frantically turned to the noise, the Darksaber still drawn, heart beating wildly in his chest. When was the last time he was taken off-guard like this? He usually had nerves of steel.</p><p class="p4"><em>“OW!</em>” cried a voice from the half the tent flap as a figure struggled to free itself from it. There was a moment’s flailing, and the figure finally extricated itself from the tangle of thick fabric and metal beams—and stepped forward, immediately snapping itself to rights.</p><p class="p4">“Good afternoon, sir!” announced the figure, which happened to be a Mandalorian—not very tall, perhaps by estimation reaching halfway Din’s shoulder. The voice beneath the helmet seemed to belong to a youth, perhaps in his teens.</p><p class="p4">Din couldn’t find the time to dilly-dally. “What’s all this?” he demanded sternly, but he knew the puzzlement on his face was more than visible. He felt rather bare.</p><p class="p4">“Sir, I think I’m stuck,” confessed the Mandalorian.</p><p class="p4">That was when Din noticed that the young man had both his hands full. He was carrying what seemed like a tray full of supper, packaged pragmatically as to keep the food hot and covered from the elements. However, there seemed to be something obstructing the boy from fully entering the tent.</p><p class="p4">“Here’s your dinner, sir,” declared the boy, “and your spear, sir.”</p><p class="p4">“Spear?”</p><p class="p4"><em>Of course!</em> Din had completely forgotten about the beskar spear which had become very useful in defeating the loathsome Moff Gideon. The man was admittedly <em>strong</em> with Darksaber in hand, but the beskar spear held true. He had set it aside when commotion of the Jedi approaching enraptured everyone present on the bridge, and he had not retrieved it since. Perhaps, Din thought with some emptiness, it was because he had to say goodbye to his foundling child, and that moment took all good sense from him.</p><p class="p4">“Yes, sir,” replied the youth with some strain. “It’s attached to my back, sir, and it seems it got caught on the doorway beam because the beam’s too low—“</p><p class="p4">“Let me help you, kid,” Din offered, setting the Darksaber down, and immediately got to work. He took the tray from the boy’s hands and set it on the table, right beside his helmet.</p><p class="p4">“Duck a bit low,” he instructed next, and the boy obeyed, and Din pulled him forward until all of the spear had successfully entered the tent along with the young Mandalorian. Din proceeded to unclip the spear from the boy’s back. He held onto it for a moment as the youth set himself to rights.</p><p class="p4">The boy slid his helmet off, and Din saw a face so young, he thought a child like this still should not have left the side of a guardian—or better yet, his very mother.</p><p class="p4">“Good afternoon, sir,” the boy repeated, a bit winded. “Emon Krers at your service, sir.”</p><p class="p4">Din tried to hide his amusement. “Good afternoon, Emon,” he acknowledged.</p><p class="p4">As though something had slapped the boy into remembering protocol, Emon hastily issued a salute.</p><p class="p4">Then it dawned on Din. This was the same young Mandalorian who had lingered a moment before he left for Nevarro, and in deference saluted him before he turned around to join his squad.</p><p class="p4">Din returned the salute with as much formality as he could gather, to indulge the boy. Such a young soul, but so eager to face this cruel world—just as he once had.</p><p class="p4">“Lieutenant Woves was to bring the spear after I brought your supper,” began Emon, who colored a little. “But I’d insisted that I bring both. He looked busy, but he said that the spear was yours, so… I brought it for him instead.”</p><p class="p4">“Thank you,” Din muttered in earnest appreciation. However, he did not want to beat around the bush and try to pull this child’s leg more than what was necessary. “But they did not need to return it, at least not right away. Your Lady Kryze might need it tomorrow.”</p><p class="p4">“Sir?” said the boy, not quite understanding—or perhaps he did, and just needed confirmation.</p><p class="p4">“Didn’t you know?” Din looked at the boy matter-of-factly, in a tone of some good-naturedness. “She is to fight me in ritual combat for the leadership of Mandalore… for the Darksaber—“</p><p class="p4">“—is a symbol of unification for the Mandalorian people,” Emon finished. The boy’s eyes were wide. His eyes were darker than Din’s, like shiny obsidian buttons, but were nonethless very expressive. “Yes, Sir. Everyone was talking about it.”</p><p class="p4">Din was taken aback. <em>So that was it.</em> Moff Gideon mentioned about a story, and what that story could symbolize.</p><p class="p4">“It is a symbol…?” Din repeated, almost to himself.</p><p class="p4">Emon looked bemused. “I thought you knew, sir?” He then looked chastised. “I mean, I don’t mean to be rude—oh no, I’m screwing up.”</p><p class="p4">“You’re doing fine,” Din assured him gruffly. Who was in charge of this child’s care? Of his upkeep? It seemed like Emon was not the only one of his age in this Mandalorian settlement. The welcome party that had fetched him appeared to be mostly of this demographic.</p><p class="p4">“I don’t mean to be rude, sir,” Emon said again, “but… they say you’re <em>different</em>.”</p><p class="p4">“Ah,” Din intoned, knowing what the boy meant. “Did they mention as well that I was of the Children of the Watch?”</p><p class="p4">Emon reluctantly looked Din in the eye, and nodded curtly. “But begging your pardon sir—<em>was</em> of?”</p><p class="p4">Din could not help deliver a one-sided smile. “The Way of the Children of the Watch is an ancient way, where one sworn to it was to never take their helmet off for as long as they draw breath—“ and Din motioned to the solitary helmet on the table, “but I have taken my helmet off, so I am no longer of their Way.”</p><p class="p4">There was a sadness in his voice which he didn’t know until this instant had seeped through his words.</p><p class="p4">“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” remarked Emon in sincere sympathy. “So what now, sir?”</p><p class="p4">“You address me too formally,” Din noted of Emon’s meticulous but sheepish politeness towards him. “Relax, then talk to me. You’ll feel better.”</p><p class="p4">“Yes, sir. I mean—okay.” Emon drew out a breath, as though loosening tense muscles.</p><p class="p4">“Well,” Din managed to return to Emon’s question. “We’ll see tomorrow. If Lady Kryze wins, naturally she’ll have the Darksaber back, and she can resume her duty. I, on the other hand—“ Din hesitated, as he knew he faced a dead-end.</p><p class="p4">“Please win, sir,” Emon blurted out, and his dark eyes were suddenly intense. His voice was hushed and for good reason—was this youth rooting against their known monarch in favor of a stranger who had just come upon them like a swift but passing gale?</p><p class="p4">“What do y…?” Din was not exactly sure of the query he wanted to form in his mind.</p><p class="p4">Emon slightly pitched himself forward, goading Din to do the same, and he was like a child sharing a secret to a friend. The boy’s voice continued to remain quiet and careful.</p><p class="p4">“Everything’s fallen apart, sir,” Emon revealed. There was veritable trouble in his tone. “Many officers had tendered their resignation not long ago. And there aren’t even many left. Most of us are kids, sir. But my brother is twenty-four, so that’s okay—-anyway, my point is…” Emon seemed to swallow a dry lump in his throat. “My point is, sir, that <em>almost</em> everybody has lost faith in…”</p><p class="p4">Din made a gesture to save the boy from finishing the last sentence, to keep him from mentioning a name—even though Din knew <em>who</em> Emon was referring to.</p><p class="p4">“I understand,” Din found himself saying, to his own surprise. Did he, however, <em>truly </em>understand?</p><p class="p4">But the evidence was plain for him to see. This stronghold upon this moon seemed anything but staunch and steadfast. The willpower in this place was in shreds and pieces. The heads he saw were bowed low, as though in extended defeat.</p><p class="p4">The morale among the Mandalorians—once proud people, to the sure point of arrogance—had all but disintegrated, along with the many lives that had been taken in the Great Purge.</p><p class="p4">“How old are you, Emon?” Din sought his voice, which had caught in his throat for a moment.</p><p class="p4">Emon, on the other hand, did not seem to expect this sort of light interrogation. He looked a bit startled. “Almost sixteen, sir,” he answered.</p><p class="p4">Din’s one-sided smile once again asserted itself. “You mean, you’re fifteen,” he corrected.</p><p class="p4">“Well, yes—almost <em>not</em> fifteen,” the Emon insisted wryly, enjoying himself in his play of words. “You see, sir, tomorrow’s my birthday.”</p><p class="p4">Din suppressed further reaction. “Quite an opportune time,” he remarked.</p><p class="p4">Emon’s ears turned red underneath the burst of his dark-as-night hair. “That’s why you need to win, sir,” the boy recounted, in a precarious dance between seriousness and frivolity. “My brother wasn’t too keen on me taking a fascination with you, Sir—saying you’re too outlandish and all. They kinda bullied me over lunch.” Emon shrugged. “They hid my jetpack. They poured milk on my datapad. It’s okay—the datapad’s waterproof. They’re just giving me a hard time for now.”</p><p class="p4">Din was aghast, but suppressed the urge to express it. He was almost certain that this infatile behavior was shared among the older Mandalorians as it did among the younger ones. A sigh coming from deep within him threatened to sweep the expanse of the tent.</p><p class="p4">“If you win—<em>when</em> you win, Sir…” Emon trailed off. Now his face, along with his ears, had turned a hot lobster pink. He whispered. “I didn’t want to think like <em>this</em>, Sir. It feels like treason.”</p><p class="p4">Din nodded, even as Emon failed to see it, with his gaze low on the floor. He gave the boy a pat on the shoulder, forceful enough to convey the warmth of his reassurance. Din held his breath within him. He had replayed all scenarios he could think of in his head, but until this time, he had been silencing the nagging of his soul to do anything <em>but</em> bequeath the responsibility of Mand’alor to someone who had been given near-infinite chances, but failed.</p><p class="p4">Is he any worthier of it, however? A dull ache began to brew at the pit of his stomach, lacing its way to his chest.</p><p class="p4"><em>Aim at your target with purpose, </em>the memory of his dead Mandalorian father’s voice threaded its way to his mind.</p><p class="p4">While he was no longer bound to the Children of the Watch, he knew he was bound to the fate of literal children, starting with Emon who stood before him—and the image of a tiny green infant, huge ears flat against his fuzzy head, looking at him with the most trusting, <em>most loving</em> of gazes ushered its way to Din’s mind.</p><p class="p4">For the children of Mandalore.</p><p class="p4">“<em>When</em> I win,” Din punctuated for Emon, repeating the youth’s last statement, and the boy looked up at him with a lost fire renewed in the depths of his being.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The beskad is something from EU/Legends, but I figured that bit of info could be useful for this chapter! I'm so sorry to leave you guys hanging, for those who wanted to read about the ritual match right away! But that's next so stay tuned. :D </p><p>Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking around, dear readers! I appreciate all your kudos and comments in advance. Kisses! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. At First Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The appointed hour between the two contenders for the highest rank in Mandalore arrives, but Din and Bo-Katan may both have come unprepared.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okaaay, I'm feeling the need to up the rating of this fic, starting with this chapter... so if violence and a bit of blood aren't your thing, ye be warned! But hopefully it's not too bad. Ahehehe. Anyway, on with it!! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 6: At First Light</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">“This isn’t a good idea, Emon,” protested Thava Syng, one of his closer friends who only avoided him when he needed to fight his own battles. However, this time, things went from interesting to almost <em>criminal</em>.</p><p class="p3">“What isn’t?” aired Emon, ignoring the gravity of his deed. A number of his fellow young Mandalorians were settled in their tier overlooking a ravine, but widely enroached by several layers of crater and rock as to mimic an open-air coliseum.</p><p class="p3">Emon hissed a discreet call at some of the youths in front, their backs towards him. “Hey,” he said. “You’re gonna place a bet or what?”</p><p class="p3">One of them turned to him immediately, as though waiting for those very words to nudge him forward. “So who’s your bet, Krers?” the boy inquired with a small sneer.</p><p class="p3">“Why, the stranger, of course,” Emon declared confidently, but hushedly—any older Mandalorian who overheard this talk would be <em>very</em> much displeased.</p><p class="p3">More heads turned. Some were cackling.</p><p class="p3">“You’re crazy, man,” remarked one.</p><p class="p3">“You’re betting <em>against</em> Lady Kryze?” hooted another through her teeth in disdain and disbelief. “Are you <em>even</em> hearing yourself talk, Krers?”</p><p class="p3">Thava was shaking her head.</p><p class="p3">“You agree with this, Syng?” came a curious prod from another Mandalorian youth.</p><p class="p3">Thava was silent for a while. “I told him it was a bad idea,” she admitted.</p><p class="p3">“Hey, traitor!” bristled Emon at his friend, still in a curbed tone. Even more heads turned. There were about twelve of them, ages fourteen to seventeen, settled on that tier, high enough for them to watch the match comfortably without having to squint or strain.</p><p class="p3">Thava made a face. “I’m <em>not </em>the traitor, betting against Lady Kryze like that,” she pointed out.</p><p class="p3">Emon felt frustration rise. “Do any of you lugheads wanna take any damn risks?” he challenged.</p><p class="p3">“Alright, Krers,” called Oryn, another of his fair-weather friends. The slightly taller boy approached him, reached into a pocket at his side, produced ten credits and flung it to him. Emon caught all the pieces easily, and tried hard not to grin. “Who’s your bet?” Emon asked.</p><p class="p3">Oryn let out a long breath, as though he waited for an onslaught. “Like yours, Krers.”</p><p class="p3">The tier of young people began to buzz in excitement and incredulity.</p><p class="p3">“The stranger?” Emon verified, and Oryn shrugged in attempts to seem unbothered.</p><p class="p3">“Yeah,” said Oryn. “I think he’ll <em>still</em> get to keep the Darksaber by the time this match ends.”</p><p class="p3">Suddenly, everyone was reaching into their pockets and bringing out any amount as they could afford.</p><p class="p3">“My bet’s on Lady Kryze,” said one.</p><p class="p3">“Lady Kryze,” said another. “That’s fifteen credits, Krers. Get ready to suffer poverty.”</p><p class="p3">Emon paid no heed. “Cough ‘em up.” He resumed his wagering duties.</p><p class="p3">“Lady Kryze.” Seven credits.</p><p class="p3">“Lady Kryze,” announced yet another. Nine credits.</p><p class="p3">“The stranger,” declared another, and all heads turned to him.</p><p class="p3">“What?” Emon’s fellow sixteen-year-old said defensively. “It’s <em>only</em> six credits.”</p><p class="p3">“Lady Krzye…”</p><p class="p3">When it was over, Emon had collected a tally of a total of three bets for the stranger, including his, and nine for Lady Bo-Katan. The amount for Lady Kryze exceptionally exceeded those of the stranger’s, but Emon refused to let his spirits fall. He was expecting this initial turnout, but his heart continued to burn with an aching hope that this stranger indeed had it in him to cement his place on the throne of Mandalore. He already had the Darksaber, as Oryn asserted. The man, who had introduced himself as Din Djarin, only needed to win this <em>one </em>match—and for sure, he had fought many of his own matches before, and emerged unscathed—what with his pure beskar armor. <em>Pure</em> beskar armor. It was almost unheard of. Since the Purge, only a few afforded the luxury as those were heirlooms. The rest had to settle with Durasteel, or with a diluted beskar mix. It was not the most durable but it did the job.</p><p class="p3">They had announced the match the night before, in small transmissions at a time, from tent to tent. Emon was with his older brother Drali when their comlinks burst to life and heard the voice of Lieutenant Koska Reeves, in full Mando’a, declare the exact time and place of the match between Lady Kryze and Din Djarin—outsider, stranger,<em> unlike one of them.</em></p><p class="p3">Emon felt a twinge of vexation of how everyone seemed to be treating this man. Clearly he was one of honor, even as he said he had broken his initial Mandalorian creed. But there were several Mandalorians with their own creeds, their own vows of honor—Din Djarin was no less a Mandalorian than the rest of them; the man had a certain posture which belonged to a seasoned warrior—it was mutedly terrifying to behold, now that Emon thought about it.</p><p class="p3">Din Djarin was dangerous in his own way.</p><p class="p3">But so was Lady Bo-Katan.</p><p class="p3">Now the appointed hour had come—first light, as the announcement came. Emon looked about him. Gathered at the outskirts of the clearing below were Zia Vauss, a clan elder, with her silver hair high and braided, her face usually expresisonless—which now held some expression, maybe of quiet anticipation.</p><p class="p3">There was Lady Bo-Katan, of course, her face gaunt but oddly beautiful, her eyes seething with dark determination. Koska Reeves was at her side, and three other adult Mandalorians. One of them he recognized was Aikka Eldar—only twenty-seven but had already been relegated as head of House Eldar. He was dark-skinned, tall, and broad-shouldered; it was not secret that he was incredibly strong for his stature. He could carry more than twice his weight in an almost inhuman feat. The other two were cloaked, and Emon could not determine their faces clearly from where he stood.</p><p class="p3">On the other end of the clearing was the stranger who was once of the Children of the Watch, the warrior whose literal bets Emon’s were on: Din Djarin, former bounty hunter, but—as word had come out—trained by the Fighting Corps. If Emon knew his history, the Fighting Corps had been one of the most skilled before <em>Death Watch</em>—a faction which Lady Kryze herself have been part of—had disbanded and no longer came to concrete terms. The Fighting Corps were known for their antiquated way of weaponry and conditioning, but they were very resilient and bull-headed. Pre Vizsla, one of the Mand’alors before the Darksaber had landed onto Lady Kryze’s hands was said to have openly displayed contempt towards the Fighting Corps’ ancient modes of discipline. None of them had subscribed to it.</p><p class="p3">At least, those were the rumors. Even the Fighting Corps were no more. If Din was possibly the last one—</p><p class="p3">To Emon’s surprise, attending to Din Djarin was his own brother, Drali Krers; Emon wondered with a bit of a <em>serves-you-right</em> sneer if Drali had been <em>ordered</em> to participate in Din’s camp at least for the time-being, during this important, decisive occasion. Two more were by Din’s side: Lieutenant Woves, who had been assigned the duty of keeping Din abreast with all needed information concerning ritual combat; the other was Van Shu’ad, one of Drali’s friends growing up. Emon recognized the beskar spear which he had personally delivered to Din the night before, and Van had it in his grip as though for safekeeping.</p><p class="p3">None of the personages below wore their helmets, save for the two cloaked ones who were at Lady Kryze’s side of the makeshift arena.</p><p class="p3">“They’re starting,” Thava whispered beside him, her face alarmingly calm. She had, after all, placed her bet on Lady Kryze. Emon started to feel uneasy, and a knot in his belly formed.</p><p class="p3">“Yeah,” he concurred, wondering to himself in sudden distaste about these bets, as fortune could be fickle, and Din Djarin—the stranger who had won the Darksaber previously from a foul enemy and caused quite a stir among everyone in the settlement—could possibly lose his life today. Emon clenched his jaw, driving away such grim thoughts.</p><p class="p3">***</p><p class="p3">The dry, stale air that settled around the clearing bore down on Din. The sun was hot on his bare face, and he felt a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck—he had never gone this long under the elements without his helmet on. Din stood disoriented for one moment, then composed the next, still gathering his bearings as best as he could.</p><p class="p3">But now was certainly not the time to feel that he was at a disadvantge.</p><p class="p3">Axe was by his side, and if he showed any signs that he was less than willing to be on the corner of Din’s camp, even for this one morning, the man disclosed none. In fact, Axe seemed to be in better spirits than him—and worse, than even Bo-Katan herself.</p><p class="p3">Not an hour ago, he had caught Axe avoiding both Koska’s and Bo-Katan’s gazes as their glares lashed at him fiercely. Axe had frowned a little, as though encumbered by the pressure to remain neutral while all this was going on.</p><p class="p3">Din wouldn’t think that Axe would ever be on his side, but it also appeared that Axe had already a small chunk of his sympathy, after all what the other Mandalorian had witnessed and known of him so far. Yet that brought Din little assurance.</p><p class="p3">“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Djarin,” Axe relayed noncomittally. The other Mandalorian held out a hand as though to receive something. “But ritual combat entails that both contenders need to have their faces exposed. That means—no helmets on.”</p><p class="p3">“I see,” Din answered, and felt sliver of pitch-dark doom settle under his skin. He shook the momentary chill off. In compliance, he handed his beskar helmet—once his sanctuary, a mask and armor in more ways than one—over to Axe. The man had then decided to take the helmet from him with both hands—a surprising sign of respect and reverence to a fellow Mandalorian.</p><p class="p3">Din silently nodded his thanks.</p><p class="p3">Din turned to acknowledge the two young Mandalorians who stood a few paces behind him. Their faces looked stunned when they realized Din was addressing them, authoritatively but not unkindly.</p><p class="p3">“I’m honored,” Din enunciated gruffly.</p><p class="p3">The two young men, whose names he recalled were Van and Drali—the latter of whom was Emon’s older brother—suddenly shifted their positions so they stood with a more regal air.</p><p class="p3">“Sir,” both addressed Din back, faces taut and darkly serious.</p><p class="p3">Din afterwards motioned to the beskar spear which Van held onto for him. “If the Lady Kryze requires of this spear at any time, do not hesitate to lend it to her,” he ordered.</p><p class="p3">Confusion painted itself on the faces of both Van and Drali, but after the two exchanged quick glances, Van nodded his assent.</p><p class="p3">A disembodied voice suddenly filled the entire coliseum, and Din was brought back to a time when he and his Mandalorian father would discreetly visit neighboring towns and watch those violent games of chance, where beheadings and guttings were very common. Young Din had drank in the sight of those gladiatorial fights so many years ago; blood and brains on the muddied floors had <em>never</em> really made him queasy.</p><p class="p3">“May we request the challengers to come forth into the center of the arena,” said the voice—a female’s, as it reverberated throughout the hollows and nooks of the coliseum.</p><p class="p3">Din kept his heartbeat from going haywire. He clenched both his fists. He found resolve to look up and around him—exposed, and certainly vulnerable—and saw faces of Mandalorians, but they were not very many. Had their numbers dwindled drastically so?</p><p class="p3">It was as if Axe read his mind, or at least deciphered his movements, when the man leaned over to him and said, “Not all the Clans are present. Some have lost heart to attend. While others—we still have yet to rally back to our cause. They are scattered across the sector as well as the rest of the galaxy.”</p><p class="p3">Din had listened carefully to every word Axe had been generous enough to provide him. The situation was indeed dire, and it still had never left his supposition that Bo-Katan had been too reckless to leave all this in shambles.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan had begun making her way to the center of the clearing for everyone to see. Even if the tiers were scarcely occupied, an audible roar of cheers filled the makeshift arena. There were scattered chants of “Kryze! Kryze!” issuing from many sides of the coliseum.</p><p class="p3">Din did the same, with his steadiest of strides. To strip the mechanics of the match to the very basics, neither of them wore any raimants that could latch onto anything—like his cape, and he and Bo-Katan had unhinged themselves of their jetpacks.</p><p class="p3">It would be a fight that would literally compel them to drag each other onto the ground, if need be. They only had their armor on, and the various weapons hidden in their vambraces, a blaster each, but Din had—and he would like to believe—the advantage of wielding the Darksaber.</p><p class="p3">They both stopped in their tracks when they were about five feet apart.</p><p class="p3">“I hope you’ve slept well, Djarin,” expressed Bo-Katan with a curl in her tone, the contemptuous tone which Din was now all too familiar with.</p><p class="p3">Din noted the dark circles around her eyes, the gauntness of her face—she was a beautiful spectre about to bare her sharpest teeth at him.</p><p class="p3">“You look like you’ve needed the sleep yourself, Kryze,” Din returned matter-of-factly, almost detachedly. He was in no mood to play word games with this woman.</p><p class="p3">A shadow descended upon Bo-Katan’s face. It occurred to Din that any action or word from him would only act as triggers to this former Mand’alor. She would use that to fuel her rage and resolve to win the Darksaber and the throne.</p><p class="p3">“When I’m done with you,” she hissed ominously, “you wouldn’t find yourself with the trouble of waking up.”</p><p class="p3">Din shook his head in repugnance to Bo-Katan’s words, and braced himself to a guarded fighting position. He had drawn the Darksaber; soon he had ignited it as well. This galvanized some commotion from the audience. The stark contrast between the Darksaber’s mesmerizing hue and the glaring daylight further emphasized how powerful the weapon was not only as a symbol, but as a means of deadly combat.</p><p class="p3">“You sure you don’t need the spear?” Din asked of her again, as he had requested Axe to deliver this offer to her before dawn even struck, and he had received a stubborn refusal.</p><p class="p3">“Silence,” Bo-Katan growled. “and fight me for the throne, Djarin.” She had placed herself in a solid fighting stance as well.</p><p class="p3">“—Begin!” the disembodied voice proclaimed.</p><p class="p3">Before Din could even bring himself to swing the Darksaber, Bo-Katan had already anticipated this attack and had a vibro-blade attached to her vambrace out, and she lashed at him so forcefully that Din took a moment to recover before he was able to manuever the Darksaber to its original position. The screeching song of physical blade and a blade of dark ether clashing against each other filled his ears. The discordant melody was almost inviting.</p><p class="p3">Din knew Bo-Katan was strong; he just failed to estimate the amount of strength she actually possessed by a notch or two. This was a woman, Axe Woves informed him, who had fought in countless wars, many of which, to Din’s agitation, she had initiated herself.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan was soon at him with one stroke after another, vibro-blade on each vambrace on full intensity so he heard the grating hum of the blade so close to his ears, he thought that she would slice his very hearing.</p><p class="p3">Yet Din blocked each and every one, locked into her every move, hoping to anticipate each blow—he had always wanted to be two steps ahead, even if the odds were seemingly against him.</p><p class="p3">The ferocity on Bo-Katan’s face struck Din to the core, yet he had no expression to throw back at her—just a biting calmness to retain his focus. This seemed to anger Bo-Katan even more.</p><p class="p3">She immediately ceased this mode of attack and switched to another—Din quickly surmised that it was the flamethrower—and as the blazing white hot flame shot itself straight at him like a hellish pike, Din ducked and rolled away, was up again, and he raised his vambrace to activate his own flamethrower.</p><p class="p3">This all happened in a matter of seconds; his own flames countering Bo-Katan’s resulted in her having to activate her personal shield—a shield of glassy light that withstood some blaster fire and flame—so for a moment, the flamethrower was deemed ineffective.</p><p class="p3">Din took this moment to swing the Darksaber low as to aim for the unprotected parts of her legs, but she was soon out of reach, and then upon him again, with both her vibro-blades drawn, and the ferocious dance happened again, Din blocking each and every of her strikes so sparks flew and sailed sharply upwards. The Darksaber howled out a shrill sound which he heard for the first time—and as though on reflex, he extricated himself from the volley of attacks Bo-Katan assailed upon him, thrusted the Darksaber hard enough so that when Bo-Katan tried to block it once more, it landed upon one of her vibro-blades with such force that the tiny weapon immediately cracked… and <em>shattered</em>.</p><p class="p3">The surprise that stemmed from this small turn of events was to Din’s detriment as he remained unguarded for a second; Bo-Katan saw this miniscule window to launch her other vibro-blade unto Din’s unprotected neck.</p><p class="p3">Din was a mere second too late in blocking that attack with a vambrace shielding his face. Part of the frenzily trembling blade had struck him behind the ear, so the skin broke at once, before sparks flew as the vibro-blade angrily met the beskar of his left vambrace. He knew he was beginning to bleed even from that small cut—he felt a swell of hot blood pour from the wound. It must have looked worse than its actuality, as he heard excited gasps emerge from the crowd.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan fought like a shriek-hawk, Din realized. The shriek-hawk was the mark of the Death Watch—it was the same mark he remembered his adoptive father wear on his pauldron before he repainted over it many days after, and kept it that way until the day he left the world.</p><p class="p3">Din, on the other hand, knew that he can vary his fighting style depending on his opponents—their size, their strength, their <em>numbers</em>… however, Bo-Katan had a frightening grace to her which he had never really encountered before. In comparison, Cara’s blows were lumbering even as they were precise. He couldn’t help but admire the heated opponent before him, determined to tear him to shreds, all for another chance at saving Mandalore from the perils it had befallen before.</p><p class="p3">The warrior before him danced her shriek-hawk dance—she yelled, she grunted, she drew breath as she issued one punch to his side, which he blocked; an attempt to curl an arm around his neck, which he quickly dodged; a high-kick to an unguarded part of a shoulder blade upon which he sprung the Darksaber to fend it off. Bo-Katan recoiled and yelled out her frustration. Din came upon her with his own volley, the Darksaber aiming upon her heavily until she surely struggled to keep up with all his blows, her light-shield beginning to quake like tin foil with every impact. Sparks were everywhere—hot and searing, and the blood down the back of his neck was an added flourish to fueling the adrenaline which had begun to overtake his body.</p><p class="p3">“You fight like barbarians,” she uttered, teeth clenched. “You, Djarin—the Children of the Watch had always fought like the savages you were. Like the savage <em>you</em> are.”</p><p class="p3">Din summoned a huge fragment of his willpower to keep his own temper in check. There she was, provoking him again. She was very good at it—drawing the monster from within. He reigned in the darkness that had begun to pool in his being.</p><p class="p3">“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Din found himself saying, ever-so-cooly, even as he knew that his own dark eyes were alight with an intensity which rivaled hers.</p><p class="p3">“The man who raised you was Raald Movan, wasn’t it?”</p><p class="p3">Din was taken aback—and he instantly regretted it. Bo-Katan had successfully held his composure by the scruff by mentioning a name he had not heard since the Great Purge.</p><p class="p3">It was the name of his Mandalorian father.</p><p class="p3">
  <em>How did she know…?</em>
</p><p class="p3">Din didn’t speak. He didn’t dare entertain her apparent onslaught to his unshattered mind, until this moment of weakness.</p><p class="p3">“Raald Movan was one of our best,” Bo-Katan continued, her green eyes flaring. “He was one of us. He was Death Watch. But he had decided to leave, along with many others, because he no longer saw the significance of our cause. He no longer wanted to answer to House Vizsla, from where Death Watch had sprung. He no longer wanted to be beholden to House Kryze, the House which sheltered his own clan, only because he couldn’t stomach the fact that I was at bitter odds with my sister.”</p><p class="p3">Her mouth formed a smirk, ghastly upon what Din thought was a beautiful face—but it was twisted now, full of rage which she had tethered within herself for far too long.</p><p class="p3">“Raald was one of our best, <em>until he was weak</em>. Until he found himself spitting at the very image of Death Watch.” And then, she said it, and Din knew the rage he had harnessed within him began to stir in earnest.</p><p class="p3">“Raald Movan was a traitor to Death Watch—a traitor to House Kryze. And you, his son—you will find yourself atoning to House Kryze!”</p><p class="p3">The Darksaber let out a high-pitched, sepulchral wail, much to Din’s bridled horror. He had slowly pieced how this anceint weaponry worked, as it was the only one of its kind—the Darksaber drew its power from the emotions of its wielder. Din’s own emotions were now thrashing within him, like a frenzied Rancor about to rip its way out of a gilded cage. His breathing rapidly rose, and he was gritting his teeth.</p><p class="p3">“What I atone for House Kryze is nothing compared to what you atone for the people of Mandalore!” Din flung at Bo-Katan.</p><p class="p3">He was inching his way towards her. He struck blows, steady but true, one after another at the now-beleaguered Bo-Katan. He heard her struggled gasps and suppressed cries of shock.</p><p class="p3">“The Darksaber had fallen out of your hands,” Din countered, his voice lodged like a beast in his throat, “and then the Purge happened! You had tried and failed, and failed so many times, Bo-Katan! Enough is enough!”</p><p class="p3">“S-stop,” he heard Bo-Katan utter—there was a plea in her voice, barely decipherable, but Din knew that he was unraveling her as she had tried to unravel him.</p><p class="p3">“Are you really fighting for Mandalore?” Din spat a challenge; Bo-Katan hailed a volley of blaster shots at him, but with every brandish of the Darksaber, each one was deflected. Bo-Katan was now looking desperate; her body was tense, her eyes were wild. “Is all you do really for Mandalore, Bo-Katan?”</p><p class="p3">“Yes!” Bo-Katan cried out her answer. “It <em>is</em> for Mandalore!”</p><p class="p3">“It’s for <em>yourself</em>,” Din growled, each word deliberate.</p><p class="p3">“How<em> dare</em> you!” Bo-Katan snarled back. “Everything I had done was for Mandalore! Every single thing!”</p><p class="p3">“The villages you willingly burned,” Din pursued his own onslaught, “the innocents yougladly slaughtered, all commodity, all for show, to pave way to this Death Watch you so proudly had been part of.”</p><p class="p3">“You shut your mouth right now, Djarin!”</p><p class="p3">“The lies you told your own people so they don’t bury you and the legacy of House Kryze—“</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan’s fury was not to be underestimated in any way. Like the shriek-hawk she was, she lunged at Din with a force which left Din winded and wondering if she had even taken her jetpack off at all, and was using it to propel herself forward. But it was her and her alone—her strength, her anger, and her frustration.</p><p class="p3">Din found himself wrestling with her, locked in a ferocious tangle of beskar-clad limbs, and in that precious moment, he had suddenly failed his grip at the Darksaber, and it tumbled away from his grasp to the slide a few feet away from both of them.</p><p class="p3">If the Darksaber remained out of his grip for far too long, then he would have lost this match. He should never had let his guard down—never had let his own frustration and anger get the best of him.</p><p class="p3">“What do <em>you</em> know of the people of Mandalore?” Bo-Katan shrieked. “You who have been raised by those who had forsaken our way—for<em> their</em> own?”</p><p class="p3">Din could not make herself listen to those words. He needed to find a way to break free and make a dash at the Darksaber, gleaming like a tiny gunmetal casket against the full morning sun.</p><p class="p3">He grunted, and Bo-Katan yelled in pain; he issued a bone-crushing grip around her arms and she released her own clutches on his for a fraction of a second; he sought that window to fling himself bodily to the ground, until he felt the solid beskar of the Darksaber’s hilt in his grip once more.</p><p class="p3">But when he rolled back up in a flash and resumed his attack-ready position, he found himself face-to-face with Bo-Katan bearing a look of pure aversion towards him. He felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle, where the bleeding continued. It would appear that he could possibly be at the losing end, now that Bo-Katan stood before him, beskar spear in hand.</p><p class="p3">She must have taken the same moment of advantage he had towards the Darksaber to seize the spear from Van—which he had instructed Van to relinquish should this happen.</p><p class="p3">And happen, it did.</p><p class="p3">“You’ll have to fight me in earnest, my dear little Din Djarin,” Bo-Katan mocked, her teeth clenched. “When Raald Movan rescued you from the carnage that killed your parents, I was already in the midst of many wars before that. You will always be a child to my eyes. You are <em>not</em> my equal.”</p><p class="p3">Din has had enough. Bo-Katan will eat her words, along with her useless pride, now that she had let Mandalore down again and again—him, a <em>child</em>? How about Emon and the other young Mandalorians that seemed so lost, so misguided? Had she taken it upon herself as well to look after the welfare of these impressionable souls? Raald Movan, his father, had fully given himself to Din’s upbringing, heart and soul.</p><p class="p3">Just as he had been willing to give fully himself up for Grogu’s.</p><p class="p3">And he still would.</p><p class="p3">Without another word, Din bore down upon her again—and the Darksaber was shining differently now, as though he had unknowingly melded with it—it was light like a feather, yet deadly as a pin of the most corrosive poison.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan was weakening against his blows. She was leaving the prime of her warrior days. Din was only in the midst of it. He will make sure to outlast her. He will make sure that his own promises were kept—to Emon, to Grogu—to the world at large, to his very self.</p><p class="p3">He noticed the beskar spear taking on a fiery glow. It was the same glow he witnessed during his fight with Moff Gideon—a glow of steel about to meet hammer and tongs upon a forge of white and blue flame, ready to bend or break in whichever way… but the beskar spear held. Only, he recalled it growing hotter and hotter, until he was sure he couldn’t bear another second of it grazing even upon his gloved hands.</p><p class="p3">He only but needed to heat the steel to its limit, and Bo-Katan will fail.</p><p class="p3">He rained blows upon the spear which Bo-Katan countered, but the force in her swings was starting to dissipate.</p><p class="p3">Then the glow upon the spear was unmistakable. It was too hot for Bo-Katan to keep upon her possession. With a cry of what he knew was an acceptance of defeat—finally, and in totality, Bo-Katan flung the spear at him, aimlessly, if only to extricate herself from the white heat that had singed her hands. Through the gloves, Din noted the bloody, burnt skin of her palms. The spear clearly missed Din by inches, and landed without ceremony a few feet from the outskirts, almost right at the feet of Koska Reeves.</p><p class="p3">Koska bore an incredulous expression, but Din, now blinded by sweat and blood upon his face, discerned a satisfied look of <em>admiration</em>—and it was towards <em>him</em>, towards a detested Child of the Watch, or what Bo-Katan had led her and many others to believe.</p><p class="p3">In the next instant, Din had grappled a downtrodden Bo-Katan so she knelt on the shimmering rock floor of the clearing, and he knelt before her, the Darksaber blade gleaming steadily over her throat.</p><p class="p3">He thought that she would put on one last struggle; instead, she looked up at him with eyes so desolate, so mournful that for a moment, Din thought that she would fold and weep before him—but she didn’t. He supposed that she never will.</p><p class="p3">“You win, Djarin,” Bo-Katan said softly, now a crumbled heap of a once-arrogant, once-supercilious warrior at his mercy. “I yield.”</p><p class="p3">Time seemed to stand still, and Din, ever so carefully, drew the Darksaber away from her neck. Away from her entirety.</p><p class="p3">Struggling, Din rose to his full height, but he couldn’t find the mettle within him to look up and around, and declare his victory.</p><p class="p3">He knew that at this point, Mandalore seemed broken beyond repair, and the rest of who was left from the Purge were now on their own to pick up the million pieces.</p><p class="p3">A hush fell in the coliseum. The hammering of Din’s heart slowed to its normal beat.</p><p class="p3">He didn’t hear the sound of cheering—or perhaps, he refused to hear it. Maybe something deep within him had hampered all clamor and all the noise.</p><p class="p3">Din shut the Darksaber off, but the hilt shivered in his grip, as though it remained reluctant awhile to return to its sheath.</p><p class="p3">After a few more heartbeats passed, he knew why.</p><p class="p3">He lifted his gaze to see that the tall young Mandalorian, one that towered nearly a head above him, built like a Devaronian; Din knew, from observation, that he may also possess the strength of one.</p><p class="p3">It was the Mandalorian named Aikka Eldar, and he had picked up the beskar spear from where it was discarded like driftwood on a vast shore.</p><p class="p3">“There are many of us,” began the dark-skinned young man, in a sonorous voice full of certainty, “that would still refuse to call you Mand’alor, either way, Din Djarin—even if you are no longer of the Children of the Watch.”</p><p class="p3">Din surmised where the young man was getting at. His Darksaber was ready in his grip again. The blood upon his neck had caked and dried, but he also knew that this was still not the end of today’s bloodshed. In fact, it seemed to be far from it, as Aikka unclipped his own jetpack and cape, and set both assiduously on the ground.</p><p class="p3">Aikka Eldar words rang boldly like a clarion call upon the ears of those present in the fray:</p><p class="p3">“I, too, challenge you to the Darksaber, Din Djarin.”</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I totally made up a name and backstory for Din's adoptive father xD, and how the Darksaber really works. I did read it's influenced by the emotions of the wielder, and only saw a little of that aspect in action in "Rebels" with Sabine Wren. </p><p>Also, believe it it or not, following the canon timeline, Bo-Katan is way older than Din. Maybe like 12+ years older. She and Grogu are close in age, akshally!! xD </p><p>Concerning ritual combat stuff, I figured it’s a “no helmet” thing since the ones shown in Clone Wars and Rebels had the fighters w/o helmets. Aaand just to give our boi Din more challenge. Mwahaha.</p><p>Hopefully this update delighted you all! Will always appreciate to know what you guys think. Thanks so much for reading. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Strength</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Emon learns a lesson from Din as events escalate, with Emon wondering about the nature of Din’s Mandalorian upbringing, and the very nature of Din himself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My sincerest apologies for the super late update!! Believe it or not, I’ve been riding out this darn Mercury retrograde, and it finally ended on the 21st. Every first one of the year turns my mind to slush ahahaha… not sure if it does the same to you guys, but I hope I haven’t become superstitious about it because it’s been happening every year. LOL! Anyway, I’m finally back, so hopefully you guys enjoy the new chapter. :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 7: Strength</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan had never thought that she’d succumb to a drawn-out moment of being dazed, paralyzed even, as Koska and one of the hooded Protectors—she wasn’t sure who it was under the cowl—bodily dragged her off the center of the combat field. She couldn’t even hold her own weight; she felt numb as she had never felt in a long time. The disappointment pierced through her chest like erosive shards of ice.</p><p class="p1"><em>This was it.</em> Defeated one more time. Defeated one last time, perhaps. Her humliation was complete, in another instance more than she thought she could handle. She had blown all her chances, and maybe, even as her raging mind fought against it—maybe, she should finally give pursuing every opportunity to rule over Mandalore a rest.</p><p class="p1">“M’lady?” Koska’s voice was a skelatal echo at the back of her thoughts. Everything was muffled. She looked up at the disgustingly clear sky, unusual for this barren moon. She turned to Koska, faithful little Koska, her face wearing an uncharacteristic mask of concern. Bo-Katan nodded once to indicate that she was slowly returning to a semblance of coherence. Koska nodded in return, and had laid her gently upon a steel chair, dusty and surprisingly hot on her still-aching body. They had dragged her under a canopy, into a shadowed corner to recover, Bo-Katan thought bitterly, from the bruises of flesh and ego.</p><p class="p1">“Leave me,” Bo-Katan ordered hoarsely, softly. Koska and the Protector both gave her a small bow of compliance, and were about to return to their positions at the outskirts of the field—to what purpose, they weren’t sure, until the crowd started coming to life once more in an uproar greater than the last.</p><p class="p1">“What is happening?” Bo-Katan managed to call out, clutching an inflamed shoulder. To Din’s credit, he was <em>strong</em>—one of the physically strongest she had fought, hand-to-hand. She absently wondered for a moment if the Fighting Corps more than lived up to their name of contained savagery and hardihood, defying all whispers and defamation which Pre Vizsla had made everyone believe. Fighting Corps, she knew, was the militant arm of the Children of the Watch. Every able-bodied youth of that sect had been trained to their limit, never in a cruel, lackadaiscal fashion, but to an extreme, nonetheless. Bo-Katan wondered how that could possibly earn Pre’s scorn, only to realize that it could have been nothing more than petty jealousy.</p><p class="p1">It was the Protector who answered her query. “M’lady—Aikka Eldar has taken it upon himself to challenge Din Djarin as well to the Darksaber.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>What</em>?” Bo-Katan uttered, echoing the Protector’s own shrouded tone of disbelief.</p><p class="p1">Aikka? She knew Aikka as a baby. She knew Aikka as a boy in his teens, and now a grown man, bearing the grueling responsibility of carrying the woes of House Eldar. Aikka’s father had perished in the Purge. Aikka’s mother despised her own frail body, which had been half-burnt from the demon fires of the Purge. She could no longer conduct the full burden of running House Eldar. Bo-Katan had a reverence for young Aikka, more than she would ever let on. Now—he was about to step into much bigger shoes, into territory perhaps too vast for his young, otherwise inexperienced mind to fathom. But Aikka was a warrior, in whatever state Mandalore had been throughout his life.</p><p class="p1">She peered through weary eyes the hulking but lithe form of Aikka Eldar, a mere outline quivering against the full heat of the morning. If pride or confusion welled within Bo-Katan, she wasn’t entirely sure. She had, for certain, withdrawn her sympathies for Din at that moment and transferred them to Aikka. If Aikka won—who knows? Was it better for one of their own to claim rule, than another who had been estranged from the rest of the fold for a devastatingly long time?</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan was awash with many an unwanted emotion, but if guilt was one of them, for thinking ill of Din Djarin… she clenched a fist, and like everyone else present on that day, waited with bated breath of what was to come next.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">“<em>Huh??</em>” Emon heard his own mangled outcry of incredulity, definitely disavowing what his eyes saw and his ears heard. “Hey, wait! Are they<em> allowed</em> to do that? Does anyone have a kriffin’ <em>manual</em> on how this combat thing goes?”</p><p class="p1">It turned out that all the young people around him felt the same, still unschooled in many traditions performed by Mandalorians of old. Some shrugged, most clicked their tongues in annoyance with furrowed brows.</p><p class="p1">“Does this mean bets are off?” wondered one, voicing the majority’s thoughts.</p><p class="p1">“Do we like… restart our bets?” Thava suggested, and some heads turned to her accompanied by glares. Oryn was seated at the front and rightmost side, shaking his head dramatically in defeat, mockingly so towards the agitated Thava—in all irony, as it was his and Emon’s contender that had won the initial match.</p><p class="p1">“To hell with the bets, man. This is <em>crazy</em>,” another commented, and others agreed.</p><p class="p1">The eldest among them, turning eighteen in a few months, seemed to have an answer. “Maybe, as long as the one being challenged doesn’t refuse a new opponent, combat ritual keeps continuing until one contender is left standing.” However, there was clear uncertainty in her eyes. “I don’t think something like this has happened in a while, and they’re just figuring everything out as they go.”</p><p class="p1">Everyone stood there, speechless. Emon slowly felt the antsiness of disconsolation. Din was still standing, and still seemed able to take on another fight—but with Aikka? Aikka who was over six feet tall, built like a twistedly elegant monster, and had worked on his strength to the bone like a beast of burden?</p><p class="p1">“<em>Dank farrik</em>,” Emon softly told the atoms around him. There was a whole lump in his throat, an amalgamation of both apprehension and anticipation. He slumped where he stood, letting out a shaky breath, which he managed to steady after a prolonged second. He might as well relax. There was nothing else he can do, for now. Like Din who has to see through this next fight, Emon had to keep both his eyes peeled to see Din through in every literal sense. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he may have contributed to the man’s situation. <em>Please win</em>, he had told Din the afternoon before, almost pleadingly.</p><p class="p1">Moreover, what Emon was really trying to pray about was—</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Don’t die.<br/></em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>***</em>
</p><p class="p1">All weariness gradually left Din as he beheld the giant of a man before him. The throbbing of his bones as well as the pulsating pain from the wound on his neck all but faded to dull sensation. This was how his body always primed itself for battle, like a flesh-and-blood machine. Sometimes he would forget that he had been trained with a bizaarre ability to disallow pain through a blockade in his mind. He knew this next contender’s name, and while he juggled with the idea of formalities, Din managed to make the next match official.</p><p class="p1">“Your name and your House?” Din asked of the challenger, who slowly advanced towards him, beskar spear in tow.</p><p class="p1">The man stopped in his tracks, some paces in between them like before, as it had between Din and Bo-Katan. He then raised his gaze, and Din saw that the man had piercingly grey eyes, which stood out so marvelously against the dark earthiness of his skin.</p><p class="p1">“Aikka Eldar,” the young man answered unresistingly, his voice full and steady, “of House Eldar. And yours?”</p><p class="p1">A lopsided smile, and not that of ill will, unwittingly formed on Din’s lips. “I am Din Djarin of Clan Mudhorn.”</p><p class="p1">Aikka stared at him, as though straight into the back of Din’s head, and his eyes seemed enough to drill a wound in his soul. “The signet on your pauldron?” Aikka inquired to confirm. He tried to sound disinterested.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded. “It is.” Din had taken out the Darksaber once more, reigniting it as he relayed these words, “I accept your challenge, Aikka Eldar.”</p><p class="p1">He had announced it boldly and loudly enough for the coliseum to hear. The acoustics further amplified the gruff determination in his voice, readily laced with a shred of amusement—to Din’s own surprise.</p><p class="p1">Din hadn’t heard any pronouncements made that the match had commenced when Aikka began charging at him with the beskar spear. Din blocked it easily, and the sickeningly satisfying sound of raging otherwordly energy and near-indestructible Mandalorian iron clashing upon each other reverberated throughout the arena once more.</p><p class="p1">It readily took more of Din’s strength to hold the spear from his face at arm’s length, as Aikka quickly measured his own brawn against Din’s. Aikka’s slate-grey eyes flitted to the glowing center of the spear as the Darksaber began heating it up once again to high levels of intensity.</p><p class="p1">“This beskar spear has an unlikely reaction to the Darksaber,” Aikka said through gritted teeth, letting out a number of words in the midst of struggle. “Or is it because you’ve figured out how the Darksaber works after all, Din Djarin?”</p><p class="p1">Din’s voice left his throat breathlessly. “Maybe. You probably have figured out the beskar spear yourself.”</p><p class="p1">“I may have,” Aikka said simply, the greys of his eyes narrowed to slits. With a grunt and a hearty push of the spear against the Darksaber, Aikka momentarily placed distance between him and Din. “The Darksaber makes the beskar heat up, as though in a forge, ready to give in to hammer and tongs,” the young man explained. It was matter-of-fact, even as Din knew that it was a new observation on Aikka’s part, and not anything drawn from lore. “At least,” Aikka continued, “with you as its wielder… for now.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s face held a flat expression; Aikka’s held one of defensive scrutinity. They circled each other cautiously, prodding at each other’s sense of attack and control. Din brandished the Darksaber in a simple arc; its broken music filled both their ears.</p><p class="p1">“How so?” Din finally responded to Aikka’s surmise.</p><p class="p1">Aikka’s immediate retort didn’t come in words but in a huge mighty swing of the spear, so it came crashing down so powerfully on Din that as he blocked it, Din felt a rumble deep within his spine upon impact, the pressure full and thorough. It was enough to send him sliding backwards a good two feet, and the dust swirled viciously around them. Yet Din held his ground, but a gutteral sound of struggle emerged from his lips.</p><p class="p1">Aikka was so damn <em>strong</em>.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps not as inhumanly strong as Burg, the Devaronian whom he had encountered the year past. Burg had treated him like a paper box to be brutally crushed and trampled underneath his feet. Aikka, on the other hand, had a fierce but healthy respect for Din’s own strength—and Din, against his better judgment, admired Aikka all too promptly. Aikka wanted to test Din’s limits as well as his own.</p><p class="p1">Din felt something swell within him which he had not felt in a long time. When was the last time he had faced a fellow warrior in this manner, with an intent really above contempt like Bo-Katan’s—but to duel with the desire of finally meeting their battle-born equal? Aikka seemed to be an incomparable fighter. Perhaps with the exception of Woves and a few more in this encampment, who had really been there to challenge Aikka in his entirety? Din, with his face unbarred, can openly read Aikka’s own expression. It was all so new and all so strange, but he <em>saw </em>it in Aikka’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">Din sensed that Aikka was feeling the same as he was, in the thick of this dispute over the throne. It was a cascade of emotion—a mix of excitement, of keen expectation, of wild, twisted joy in the mere fulfillment of facing a fighter of one’s calibre, and almost of the same combative mind.</p><p class="p1">They—two Mandalorians raised in different worlds, metaphorically and literally, were meeting on a level that was capriciously eye-to-eye, with one ready to shake out the balance of the other. It was—Din finally found the words. It was oddly, and <em>direly</em> <em>exhilarating</em>.</p><p class="p1">Then, as if a mutual understanding has been reached with a flip of a switch, Din and Aikka, in a display which surely baffled onlookers—were baring their dark, contentious grins at each other, appreciating a moment which all true warriors beheld—a genuine passion for the fight.</p><p class="p1">Din decided to attack this time. His technique with a sword came from only his training with the <em>beskad</em>, which was of different weight, length, and shape, but he adjusted the fundamentals so it translated seamlessly with a weapon like the Darksaber. A weapon that was one of its kind, and only one to master it at a time, if Din held onto it long enough. He did not have the leisure of practicing with the Darksaber at length, and <em>now</em> was a good time as any, even at this critical moment.</p><p class="p1">Aikka swung the spear, blocked the blow; Din aimed high with the speed and ballast to strike with the force he aimed for, and Aikka nearly missed his cue and fumbled for a moment. The back-and-forth conversation between weapons and skill was more than just a simple dance.</p><p class="p1">A choked and restless hush fell upon the coliseum, and above it rang the sound of the growls and grunts of two men, and the music of blows and impacts, of the shuffling and shifting of rock and sand.</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">“<em>Osik!</em>” Emon sharply muttered a swear word in Mando’a, something he never usually did. But this occasion merited it. <em>So this is what a real fight looks like, when two fighters respect each other…</em></p><p class="p1">Emon had only heard wives’ tales of it. He wondered about the necessity of a Pacifist era among Mandalorians—as what was taught to them, since Emon had not yet been born during that time, and how they were constantly reminded of the bloodlust and eagerness for warfare which plagued the very psyche of ancient Mandalorians. In a peaceful time, clans would find reasons to provoke each other and be at one another’s throats with fists and vibroblades. He realized then why that was so frowned upon. But this scene he watched, with his sixteen-year-old lens of the world—this was different, Emon knew. It was far beyond <em>fascinating</em>.</p><p class="p1">If only he—or <em>all</em> of them—learned to fight like<em> that.</em></p><p class="p1">Then there it was again—the fiery glow of the beskar spear as repeated blows of the Darksaber rained upon it. Even from where he stood, Emon saw that Aikka’s slate-grey eyes glowed with a determined light as he held on to the blazing heat of the spear. Unlike Lady Bo-Katan, whose spirit had fallen with her ability to withstand an exceptional amount of pain, Aikka was doing so with passing marks. Aikka’s threshold for pain was legendary among his Clan.</p><p class="p1">Emon saw the warring frustration and admiration in Din as well. The man had already struck Aikka hard on the pauldron, and as such, the younger man’s armor was composed of a diluted beskar mix, so the Darksaber left an angrily visible mark upon it. Din had almost succeeded in slicing Aikka’s pauldron in two.</p><p class="p1">Aikka was certainly very strong, but not sufficiently protected.</p><p class="p1">Din of relatively modest strength was armed with an ancient weapon and covered in pure beskar armor.</p><p class="p1">Emon felt his stomach churn, feeling somehow that the tables have turned. Aikka now was the one <em>in danger</em> of getting killed, should Din intend it.</p><p class="p1">“He’s winning again,” he heard one of the youths remark under her breath.</p><p class="p1">“Is he? They’re both starting to wear out,” observed another.</p><p class="p1">That statement was true. Both men were slowing down. Din’s neck wound had re-opened from the strain and blood started to flow from it anew. Aikka had taken blows to the face, with gashes slowly bleeding as well. His left pauldron began to crumble; the side of his undersuit was partly in tatters. His gloves were seared from the sizzling heat of the spear, but miraculously, the flesh wasn’t burnt underneath. Aikka was uncanny in his own right.</p><p class="p1">So was Din.</p><p class="p1">Emon couldn’t believe what he saw next. Din seemed to have gathered his last ounce of strength for that particular duel, and as though the Darksaber read his thoughts, or had been inclined to do his bidding, it glowed with a furiously otherworldly non-light, and it flashed so suddenly upon the final impact of Aikka’s attack with the spear—with a snarl that was more of shock than pain, Aikka with his own astonishment, and with the astonishment of all who witnessed it—the spear was siezed out of his grip, and it flew out in an angle which made it whistle sharply before burying itself, tip-first on the rock some paces beside Aikka.</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">Not to be undone all at once, Aikka took out his blasters and started shooting—and with all that is fair and just, his aim was true, but Din had raised a vambrace in defense on one hand, and swung the Darksaber with the other, so all of his shots were deflected.</p><p class="p1">The deflected shots, however, posed a different threat.</p><p class="p1">They had scattered all over the coliseum, but—to both Din’s and Aikka’s relief and unspoken gratitude towards the old Mandalorian gods watching over them, if there were still any—hit random faces of rock and stone and not of people’s faces.</p><p class="p1">Aikka realized that the blaster had been personally put out of the question, in great caution that no other lives would be lost should a blaster bolt go astray.</p><p class="p1">He had no melee weapon to use now, and he had but to secure a last stand with his fists.</p><p class="p1">Din was upon him in a flash, but Din—as quickly as he had commenced this attack, halted, as though he had barricaded himself from his opponent.</p><p class="p1">“Aikka,” Din warned. “If I strike you now, you’ll be fatally wounded. Your armor won’t protect you from the Darksaber.”</p><p class="p1">Aikka clenched his teeth and his eyes were ablaze. “Just hit me, Djarin! Worry about yourself!”</p><p class="p1">Din’s reluctance in spite of Aikka’s stubborness should have been a misstep, but Din was the more experienced warrior when it came to sudden movements done to mislead. Aikka made for Din’s wrists in attempt to wrest the Darksaber away from the man’s grip—</p><p class="p1">Din had anticipated this, somehow. He narrowly avoided Aikka’s grappling shove, and Din, his face now showing the most emotion since that morning, even as he had sparred with Bo-Katan using sharp words as tools, swung the Darksaber so it dislodged Aikka’s right pauldron, and another swing so it sliced one of his breastplates into pieces.</p><p class="p1">And then Aikka was very still, as gravity seemingly knocked him to his knees after his own purposeful attack on Din. The Darksaber found itself once more cleanly a mere inch away from Din’s opponent’s exposed throat.</p><p class="p1">Silence reigned—perhaps, and at least, in Din’s mind. The sweat trickled over his eyes, soaking his hair—and Aikka’s own face was soaked, but the younger man’s expression revealed puzzlement as well as awe of what had just transpired.</p><p class="p1">Aikka swallowed, so his adam’s apple delicately missed the hissing edge of the Darksaber.</p><p class="p1">Aikka slowly nodded in recognition of his defeat.</p><p class="p1">Din’s gaze softened a little.</p><p class="p1">“I yield,” Aikka finally relented, and his grey eyes had tried to keep their stony glow despite showing defiant, raw emotion.</p><p class="p1">There was no longer mistaking the roar of the onlookers. There were cheers of appreciation, groans of disappointment, the pounding of frustrated fists on hard surfaces—it all grew louder and <em>louder</em>.</p><p class="p1">Din released Aikka from the Darksaber’s edge; he held a hand out in goodwill to help his fallen contender up.</p><p class="p1">Aikka measuredly addressed this for a few seconds before he took the offer, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet despite his height, despite his weight and countenance—and Din struggled from exhaustion at the feat, but soon both men were standing, facing each other in a surprisingly civil conclusion to this match.</p><p class="p1">Aikka had lowered his gaze, as though to acknowledge the prowess of a superior warrior.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe you are fit to be Mand’alor after all,” Aikka whispered, with reservation, as though he kept the words from being heard by a bigger power that would jinx that very edict should he say it any louder.</p><p class="p1">Din did not know what to respond at that moment, and his expression grew blank as it had been at the beginning, unreadable and calculated, as if he still wore the helmet.</p><p class="p1">His heart pounded from all that exertion—and Din welcomed it all. The exhiliration had never left him, and from what he had gleaned from Aikka’s form as he retreated back to his corner of the outskirts, that the other man still recovered not from hurt pride, but from, perhaps, the euphoric opportunity of facing a fair match with a seasoned fighter.</p><p class="p1">Din lingered awhile under the oppressive sun’s heat and the burning air. No one was proclaiming his victory, and he thought as much—would it be too presumptuous to proclaim it himself?</p><p class="p1">However, a peculiar kind of insanity briefly overtook him as he remained where he stood—and for what? Did he need to satiate the desire for another fight? <em>And why so?</em> What sort of masochism courted his sensible self that he silently wished for yet another contender?</p><p class="p1">He didn’t need to do a full sweeping gaze around the coliseum to know that there were those who were still fully not in support of his victory, even as he had once again won it fair and square. The Darksaber remained ignited in his grip, although his arm had relaxed.</p><p class="p1">Did the finality of his own acceptance of being Mandalorian despite breaking his only known Creed depended on the acceptance of the entire Mandalorian fold present in this place, and on this day? Was it vanity? Was it his own self-inflicted punishment for something he had thought was irreparable?</p><p class="p1">“Din Djarin!” came an awaited call. The man turned to the voice—it was new voice, and it was the rounded, staunch voice of a woman.</p><p class="p1">A well-built feminine form stepped forward from another corner of the coliseum. Like Aikka, she was of darker skin, but her built was more like Cara’s, except less muscular and more lean.</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t feel the need to beat around the bush. “Do you challenge me as well?”</p><p class="p1">The woman revealed her face as the sun shone upon it. It was beautiful, noble face, and her eyes were like dark jewels that shone with eager depths. Her armor glistened with the muted color of crimson and silver. Like his, this woman’s armor was made of pure beskar, and as things were, was most certainly passed on to her by heritage.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t mind if I do,” the young woman said with a casual air.</p><p class="p1">He heard the escalating wild murmurs of the crowd. This was madness, to the point of grotesque spectacle, but the murmurs he heard were encouraging, were making the blood in his veins pump with vibrant <em>life</em>. It was an elation he had not experienced ever since taking Grogu under his wing. The child was not with him at the moment, and who knows for how long, but was this spectacle filling the <em>void</em> in his soul, which Grogu—and to an extent, the memory of Raald Movan—had left there?</p><p class="p1">“After you, Naya!” came yet another voice—that of a young man’s, and the source of it stepped forward as well to the open, but in deference to the contender that would come before him. <em>Naya</em>. Was that this Mandalorian woman’s name?</p><p class="p1">The woman named Naya turned to face the young man. She had tried to sound icy and irked, but she managed a tone filled with surprised disbelief. “Are you assuming that I would lose so you could then challenge him afterwards, Alix of Clan Javell?”</p><p class="p1">The owner of said name, as Din turned to him, was as well-built as he was tall, perhaps towering over Din only by an inch. The man called Alix had dark, combed hair, and his tanned face was clean-shaven, but his eyes were a bright cobalt blue, stark against the golden brown of his skin.</p><p class="p1">Alix’s piercing eyes darted among Din, Naya, and the Clan Elder Zia Vauss who had raised a hand as if in astute reproach.</p><p class="p1">That was when an announcement echoed throughout the makeshift arena, reminding Din once more of the old gladiatorial games—-and he had hoped that whatever else would ensue today would spill blood far less than what he had seen in those games.</p><p class="p1">“Mandatory intermission is granted to the primary contender. An hour from now, the ritual combat will resume.”</p><p class="p1">This surprised Din more than anything so far on that day—to his own utter discomfiture. He had expected a full brutal treatment and a complete mauling of his person from these Mandalorians who were not of his Way. He had felt that they were only a nudge away from outright spitting at his face as was his impression, but he quickly discovered that these Mandalorians still tempered themselves, and would not blatantly carry him out like a beast to the slaughterhouse.</p><p class="p1">He was at fault, too—did he not want to keep on fighting, on proving to anyone who mattered until he was beaten and battered to a surety of full victory or of final, full defeat?</p><p class="p1">Din’s eyes met Naya’s, and then Alix’s, who neither flinched at his gaze despite being spectator to his two wins in a row, and with him only minimally scathed.</p><p class="p1">A small, lopsided smile had formed on Din’s face. “Get in line,” he whispered, “all of you, who wish to challenge me for the Darksaber. It will all be a great honor.”</p><p class="p1">He caught the slightly confused looks on both Naya and Alix as Din deactivated the Darksaber, and with a barely concealable limp, made his way out of the center of the arena to the area where he could rest and rejuvante before facing the next two challengers. Will the string of challenges end with these two? Din’s mind went a little numb.</p><p class="p1">He’d cross the bridge when he got there.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Emon hurried down the steep rocky steps to even ground as he made his way to the holding area where Din Djarin stayed in this hour-long intermission.</p><p class="p1"><em>What the hell was that?</em> Emon felt an unsettling chill in his bones. Why didn’t Din refuse? He was already victor twice! Did that not tell him anything at all that he could actually be destined to the Darksaber? Didn’t it occur to him at all that all this effort would be wasted if he wore himself too thinly with Naya, or maybe with Alix, and the wins he had worked so hard for would be for <em>nothing</em>, after all?</p><p class="p1">Emon knew he barely had the right to, but he felt sullen <em>anger</em> towards Din Djarin. This anger, however, was mixed with immense concern. Did bloodlust get to Din’s head? Did the need to fight on whichever occasion won the man over, just as Emon had been taught which the ancient Mandalorians were notorious for? Din was, after all, raised among a more antiquated, zealous kind of culture. If it’s any similar to those of these violent, warmongering Mandalorians of centuries past—Emon didn’t exactly want to find out in this manner.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, Emon—where the <em>hell</em> do you think <em>you’re</em> going, pipsqueak?”</p><p class="p1">It was his older brother Drali, who was posted at the archway which guarded the dusty rocky glade wherein Din took his rest. The name-calling was done fondly, as Drali had habituated since they were small children, but Emon had opted to ignore Drali altogether.</p><p class="p1">Without even spotting if Din was within his view, Emon bypassed Drali and irefully trudged his way through the guarded arch.</p><p class="p1">“Not so fast, Emon!” Drali called, his voice at once filled with vexation.</p><p class="p1">“Just let me through!” Emon retorted. He blindly walked further in.</p><p class="p1">He finally caught sight of Din Djarin, seated almost peacefully on a nondescript steel chair set for him before an equally plain steel table, and upon it a tankard, a pitcher of water, and a now-empty plate.</p><p class="p1">Din had not rasied his eyes to acknowledge Emon’s impudent and unannounced entry when a grip roughly and unceremoniously took him by the arm.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, runt, you just can’t go barge in like that!” It was Van who crushingly grappled at his arm. Van was the more assertive one compared to Drali, who still kept his cool and wits about him as far as he could take them.</p><p class="p1">Emon, to his own shock, growled in exasperation. “Let me <em>pass</em>, Van!”</p><p class="p1">“Stop being such a <em>brat, </em>Emon!” Van shook the boy’s arm in frustration. “Drali didn’t raise you on his own so you could act like—“</p><p class="p1">“Shut UP!”</p><p class="p1">Din had finally looked up, as though the thoroughness of where Emon had decided to take the commotion snapped him out of a reverie.</p><p class="p1">Din’s gaze was so comprehensively grim that both Van and Emon ceased all quarrel.</p><p class="p1">“Van,” Din said, with disconcerting gentleness. “It’s all right. Emon can talk to me.”</p><p class="p1">Van looked as though he could hardly believe his ears, but Emon shook himself free from Van’s hold post-haste, and made his way towards Din.</p><p class="p1">The older youth simply shook his head with even more frustration, and half-begrudgingly made his way back to his post by the archway along with Drali, who sported an equally displeased glare at Emon.</p><p class="p1">Emon shrugged.</p><p class="p1">When Din didn’t speak again, and Emon noticed the man’s silence, the boy turned to him. It was as though Din had returned to his reverie. He held a half slouched, comfortable posture; Emon further perceived the subtle melancholy in the man’s eyes, which were slightly downcast. The boy quickly followed the man’s gaze—</p><p class="p1">Din was holding something in one of his bare hands, stripped of its glove. The man was rolling it in his fingers, carefully and deliberately. Emon had to squint a little to see that it was a small silver ball, marked with a bit of color at the bottom, and on the bottom was a hole that showed that the ball was hollow.</p><p class="p1">“S-sir?” Emon began, shame suddenly overtaking him for being so rude earlier. Din looked somehow troubled to an extent that he may have forgotten Emon’s presence before him.</p><p class="p1">However, Din looked up at him again without missing a beat—which offered the fact that the man was lucid and had been fully aware of the commotion Emon had kicked up to get his attention. Emon felt his face flush.</p><p class="p1">“Did you wish to tell me something, Emon?” Din began, without a trace of anger.</p><p class="p1">On the other hand, anger brewed anew within Emon, although diffused to a degree in reaction to Din’s unnerving sort of calm.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, yeah I <em>do</em>,” Emon posited, his breath hitching in his throat. “Sir—they’re trying to <em>break</em> you. Maybe they even want to <em>kill</em> you.”</p><p class="p1">That was when Din got his full attention. He lowered the tiny silver sphere from his gaze, and placidly, almost tenderly, balled a fist around it.</p><p class="p1">“Emon,” Din said firmly, but with a trace of good-naturedness, to the boy’s further bafflement. “Didn’t it occur to you that <em>I</em> could be the one breaking <em>them</em> as well?”</p><p class="p1">Emon stood dumbfounded. He was speechless for few seconds.</p><p class="p1">“I certainly don’t wish to kill anyone today,” Din revealed softly. “And most certainly don’t wish to be killed off as well.”</p><p class="p1">Emon started with a sputter. “But—but why can’t you just refuse? I mean—you could just move the rest of the challenge tomorrow. Or the day after that. You couldn’t possibly handle all these challenges in a single day—“ and Emon immediately regretted saying those words, yet he plodded on, “much less, in a single morning…!” He paused, his head feeling a tad light. It was not really in his character to tell anyone what to do. Emon had always been the weak one, the pushover, who very often had to stand for his own, unless Drali or any of his fair-weather friends decided to stop him from feeling too sorry for himself.</p><p class="p1">Din’s posture shifted a little, as though seriously considering what Emon had just conveyed to him. He looked thoughtful awhile, which prompted Emon to a respectful momentary silence.</p><p class="p1">Then Din’s countenance changed a little. The next words he said betrayed no exact expression, as the man’s face seemed blank again, but Din’s voice… that was what got to Emon.</p><p class="p1">“You’re right,” Din began carefully… but Emon sensed an askew hint of good humor—and at the same time, a pondering sadness, in his tone. “Maybe I should refuse for today. Get comfortable. Have a nice meal,” the man continued. “Have a nice little sleep for tonight.”</p><p class="p1">Emon once more felt his face flush, but the heat that had crept to his face had gotten short of overwhelming. The boy realized that Din was chastising him, but indirectly enough for Emon to repent over the misplaced magnitude of his own scolding towards an older man who probably knew himself more than anyone else in the galaxy.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Probably.</em>
</p><p class="p1">“I’m—“ Emon didn’t know where to start. He crouched, unable to meet Din in the eye. “I’m s-sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to… to not have faith in you at all. In fact,” Emon attempted to lift his head a little, “I think you can win—because by all means, you’re <em>already</em> the victor. But…”</p><p class="p1">When Emon’s wordlessness lingered, Din spoke once more, but had encouraged Emon to boldly look him in the eye. Emon did so.</p><p class="p1">“Strength is life, for the strong have the right to rule.”</p><p class="p1">Emon was too rattled to let the statement sink in, until he recognized that phrase. Color pushed its way to Emon’s cheeks again.</p><p class="p1">“Have you heard those words before, Emon?” Din asked.</p><p class="p1">Emon gravely nodded, once. “It’s part of the Mandalorian Code of Honor, Sir. It’s not the <em>Resol’nare</em>, but it’s almost as equally important to the belief system…”</p><p class="p1">Din’s plaintive smile was more visible now. “So we have been taught the same thing, and I’m glad.”</p><p class="p1">Emon felt Din’s indirect rebuke hit him in the gut again, but by no means with any malice on the man’s part.</p><p class="p1">“I… I understand now, sir.”</p><p class="p1">“Good.”</p><p class="p1">The gazes of Emon and Din met again, and Emon forced a semblance of hope in his expression and into his very soul as he had earlier that morning, and when a one-sided smile crept on the boy’s face, Din seemed to mirror it back.</p><p class="p1">“Sir,” came Drali’s call as footsteps heralded Emon’s brother’s approach. “They’re about to start with the second half.”</p><p class="p1">Emon’s eyes widened a fraction, and he sneakily studied the older man’s fighting form and condition. Din looked as rested as he could be for that given period of time, and traces of his wound were gone—washed and bandaged, it seemed—but there still remained a weariness in his demeanor. Emon inwardly deduced that Din’s many old wounds, acute or otherwise, were slowly compounding upon him, like those of any warrior’s who had fought countless battles from youth to approaching middle-age.</p><p class="p1">“Very well,” Din replied, and he stood up, and Emon was nearly taken aback with the strange regality in this man who he had only met in earnest the day before.</p><p class="p1">Drali shot Emon a look of admonishment before heading out to escort Din paces ahead, and Emon hid the subtle roll of his eyes. Din seemed to have noticed as the man chuckled.</p><p class="p1">“Emon,” Din called before he had walked out to follow his escort.</p><p class="p1">“Sir?”</p><p class="p1">Without as much as a warning, Din tossed the tiny silver ball to him. Emon gasped and floundered but had successfully caught the seemingly precious little item with both his hands.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be back for that,” Din told him. “Look after it for me.”</p><p class="p1">Emon nodded without as much as a peep and sound, and half-consciously cradled the little ball close to his chest. “Yes, sir!” A small smile wormed its way to Emon’s lips once again.</p><p class="p1">And with that, Din Djarin had swiftly marched out of the small glade, leaving Emon to hurriedly resume his place with the other youngsters, back at the tier assigned to them.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Um… I hope the update was worth the wait! :D So sorry again that it took so long. Will update regularly once more, now that we’ve got Mercury retrograde out of the way. Gaaah. Thank you so much for waiting, and reading, and as always, feedback is appreciated! Until next chapter. It’ll come sooner than later! xD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Greatest Warriors in the Galaxy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din faces Naya and Alix in surprisingly complex ways, and he is reminded that it takes more than the skill of the fight to build a warrior.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m so glad that you guys appreciate the updates! I love ya’ll for sticking around. &lt;3 A little warning for this chapter, however: it’s gonna get a bit more violent from here on (hehe), and there’s gonna be some Din whump, but maybe not enough (yet?) for me to put a warning on the tags. Let me know, though! Still kinda fiddling with how this platform works. :) Now enough babble and on with the second half of Mandalorian Super Bowl lol just kidding~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 8: The Greatest Warriors in the Galaxy</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">An uncharacteristic beeline had formed for Emon when he returned to the others on their designated tier. To Emon’s added bewilderment, Oryn even lightly grabbed him by the shoulder, and practically shoved him to the front of the tier, with only a strip of stone high enough to touch the tallest among them by the hip that barred a long tumble downwards.</p><p class="p1">“Best spot in the house,” Oryn remarked, and Emon couldn’t deny it. He had a wide open view of the clearing below, where the next match was about to begin. Emon felt his defenses tingle, as though expecting a trick from everyone else—as per usual, but they let him stand there, unbothered, with that perfect view. No doubt, should the contenders look up to where he stood, he would very well be within their sights.</p><p class="p1"><em>So… is everyone having a change of heart just now?</em> Emon inwardly grumbled.</p><p class="p1">No one had listened at first, when he said that he had placed his bet on Din Djarin. No one cared, and perhaps they only did so out of playful spite when he thought the stranger would “change how things were run in here.” The mean-spirited chuckles he heard all day yesterday didn’t deter him from rooting for Din. The tides were strangely turning… but for how long?</p><p class="p1">Emon folded his arms around himself. He felt an awful tightness in his gut.</p><p class="p1">He hadn’t known Naya and Alix for a long time. Emon couldn’t measure how their skills match up with Din’s.</p><p class="p1">Naya herself had arrived two days before, and Alix on that very same morning, hours before first light. Members of clans that have largely dwindled from the Purge were trickling in slowly to the encampment from various reaches of the galaxy, but Emon didn’t see to what end, until this day.</p><p class="p1">Or so he thought, at least.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">During his allotted hour of rest, Din sought comfort in the memory of his first practice duel with Raald Movan as a child.</p><p class="p1">His father had been painstakingly preparing him for the <em>verd’goten</em>—the Mandalorian ritual of one’s coming-of-age. A significant part of the trials entailed facing their very mentors in a test match. Din was thirteen, wide-eyed and still rosy-cheeked—an unlikely killer. At that point, however, he still hadn’t taken the life of another, but Din knew that that time will eventually come. That time <em>always </em>came to a full-fledged Mandalorian.</p><p class="p1">Din had never seen Raald so serious in his life, since the man made it known that he had taken in Din as his adoptive son. Raald had told him, if Din passed his<em> verd’goten</em> in the appointed time, and not a year later—as those who failed the first time always had chances in the following year—Din would finally get to see Raald’s face.</p><p class="p1">It was customary, anyway.</p><p class="p1">They would be living under the same roof, in the same closed quarters as father and son. Their tribe recognized the sole impracticality of keeping one’s helmet on when confined with family (or when alone). Din had seen this as a very <em>just</em> reward. While he had been taught that one’s facelessness was a virtue, and that they were all fiercely united by the uniformity of a helmet, Din had grown up seeing the clear faces of his birth family—and Raald didn’t want to deny Din of that privilege.</p><p class="p1">Raald loved Din with all his being. Din could never forget that.</p><p class="p1">Din underwent his <em>verd’goten</em> with four other children, sent to the wild with only the necessary equipment to survive a week in one of the harshest winters of the planet. The planet was not Mandalore—Din had never seen it, much less set foot on it. They were not even within the Mandalorian sector. He hardly remembered each planet which the tribe had settled in during bursts of many seasons. They were nomadic for a while. They adapted as best as they could with each move, and Raald explained that it was a means to strengthen their character.</p><p class="p1">Din had spent a week in the cruel cold with other thirteen-year-olds, building fires and eating a special fruitcake and drinking spiced toddy to warm their bellies. They took turns in hunting, and when the days died down to unrelentingly freezing evenings, they distracted themselves with broken snippets around the fire. Paz was one of those children. They were of the same age, surprisingly. Paz was a foundling like he was. Only two among them were born of Mandalorian parents. However, that distinction was never a factor in the Children of the Watch. Whether foundling or Mandalorian-born, you were of the tribe, no more and no less.</p><p class="p1">Among the five, only one had failed the <em>verd’goten,</em> when they were already four days in.</p><p class="p1">He had recklessly fallen under the ice as they crossed a vast, frozen lake. Din and the others had wanted to help, but before any of them could devise a quick plan, the father of that boy leapt from the shadows like a wolf, and with beefy hands, scooped the thrashing child from the frigid water. The boy coughed, sputtered, and stifled cries of disappointment and pain.</p><p class="p1">That was when it dawned on Din that Raald had been nearby all that time, as it was with the parents of the others. They remained unseen throughout the ordeal, but were all watching them vigilantly like hawks. Din had felt a bit crestfallen that this adventure was a half-pretense, that they weren’t in real danger, at least in a prolonged sense. He and the other children were simply there to fulfill a custom, albeit an exceedingly important one. The boy who failed had passed the year after, but ever since, he had been struggling with an air of shame. Din himself didn’t treat the boy any differently, but there was an unspoken branding of a child who did not pass the <em>verd’goten </em>in their first run.</p><p class="p1">Thankfully, Din did pass. Raald had revealed his face to him that night, when they shared a celebratory drink—just the two of them in their abode, with Raald’s beaming face the highlight of it all.</p><p class="p1">Din had nearly forgotten how precarious it was, getting the upper hand as he fulfilled the final test: hand-to-hand combat with his father. But Raald taught him well, and Raald had been a feverishly dedicated teacher. He had always felt the tenacity of Raald’s actions whenever it came to Din, as if Raald were perpetually laying all his cards on him. This never bothered him one bit, for when he grew older, his father would always look at him eye to eye.</p><p class="p1">When Din swiftly toppled Raald to the ground in what he had judged was an achingly sloppy move, Raald still remained down, and at first, Din felt a little humiliated as well as furious that his father was simply humoring him. But the elders made it clear that Din had passed, and Raald sprung up clutching his arm in earnest pain. Din hadn’t seen Raald’s expression then, but the man’s visor had looked at him in way which Din familiarized himself with as endearment and <em>pride.</em></p><p class="p1">Din had finally come of age, and he and his father were equals, as he was with the rest of the tribe. The most sacred rite of the <em>verd’goten</em> rested on the lifelong pledge to wear one’s helmet at all times, and never shed it in front of another living being, and Din swore the Creed with as much solemn pride as his thirteen-year-old heart and soul could carry.</p><p class="p1">Months later, he would start training with the Fighting Corps and the Rising Phoenix. Some years after, he would take his first bounty hunting jobs, make his first bloody kills… and years after that, fight by his father’s side when they heeded a distress call, not knowing that it would be the last of him seeing Raald Movan alive.</p><p class="p1">Those painful moments would then be known as part of <em>The Great Purge.</em></p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">It was an hour before noon when everyone resumed their places at the clearing.</p><p class="p1">The third moon of Concord Dawn had its own unique qualities should one glance skyward. The gasses that surrounded the moon had a way of turning the sun a bright purple, when it had been the usual blinding yellow only hours before. It was a strange kaleidoscope of colors throughout the day, and Din had previously known none of that.</p><p class="p1">Hues of rich purple and bright orange fleetingly danced on the face and form of his next opponent. Din thought that the novelty of seeing everything without the filter and barrier of the helmet wouldn’t cease any time soon. He had started to become less and less overwhelmed, and took things in stride, just as he had when it came to any instance where adaptation was needed. All those years as a young nomad, he thought in gratitude, had kept him sharp when he needed it the most.</p><p class="p1">He faced the woman named Naya, and she looked back at him, her otherwise beguiling face forming an eternal scowl. Din felt that an anger was simmering within her, and for reasons unknown to him at that moment.</p><p class="p1">“What is your name and your house?” Din asked in repeated formality. He had taken the Darksaber out of its cradle again. Naya’s eyes followed his movements.</p><p class="p1">Her face still somber, the woman replied, “Naya Tyrr of House Kast.” Her eyes flashed with an odd effervescence, perhaps through the effect of the liquid colors of noon. “No need to tell me yours, Din Djarin of Clan Mudhorn.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded, amused by her terseness.</p><p class="p1">As with Aikka, no one waited for the official call to begin the tourney—if that was what this spectacle turned into, since Din was facing more than one intended opponent. Naya took no notice of the beskar spear which remained embedded on the rock just shy of the perimeter where it had fallen from the last match.</p><p class="p1">Instead, after a moment of static silence, Naya produced her weapon of choice that had been clipped at either side of her belt, and lifted both pieces with either hand.</p><p class="p1">Din recognized it as one of the newer vibro-arbir blade prototypes which he had avoided due to its experimental stages. Unstable weaponry was the last thing he needed to get jobs cleanly done. However, Naya seemed to have acquired them and had taken to them effortlessly. The arbir blade was like a vibroblade in the form of a double-ended spear, when joined at the middle. It could be used either way, but for now, Naya had chosen the version where she gripped each half confidently on either hand.</p><p class="p1">The blades themselves were a newer blend of tempered metals. Since Din was barely familiar with the existence of <em>Jetii</em> “laser swords,” he had no idea how Naya’s prototype would fare with the Darksaber as a beskar weapon would. Perhaps she didn’t even know that herself.. and they were both about to find out now.</p><p class="p1">It caught Din off-guard, to Naya’s credit when she activated the blades, so a thin shard of pale rosy plasma began to emit parallel to the metal blades. The sparks came in wildly random intervals, testament to the possible instability of the weapon, but if Naya was unshaken enough to use them in a crucial match, then she may have mastered it to some degree.</p><p class="p1">“So—you seem fascinated with these.” Naya wove through his line of thought, referring to the blades.</p><p class="p1">Din pursed his lip a little. “I won’t deny that,” he acknowledged.</p><p class="p1">A warped sort ofthrill erupted within Din when Naya, without hesitation, came at him with the weapon he had never encountered in a fight before. He knew he <em>relished</em> the challenge, as was his conditioning by his Mandalorian heritage.</p><p class="p1">When the arbir-blades came upon bloodcurdlingly satisfying impact with the Darksaber, the latter weapon let out a discordant song as though it came from deep beneath the ground. He noticed how the Darksaber felt suddenly heavy, like a magnet which was trying to unresistingly draw both arbir-blades towards it, and this unexpected outcome surprised Naya as it surprised him.</p><p class="p1">Both ensued the struggle of pulling away their respective weapons from each other’s, which felt like prying obstinately glued objects apart. Naya let out a frustrated, and an almost pained grunt.</p><p class="p1">All Din could manage to say in a near-deadpan tone was, “Interesting.”</p><p class="p1">Naya’s eyes further darkened.</p><p class="p1">She attacked again.</p><p class="p1">Din had to admit that he started to feel uncoordinated and confused. It bore down on him inconveniently. He was fighting with a weapon new to him against a similarly unfamiliar weapon. This was hardly a setback for him in the past, but with the Darksaber and the plasma vibro-arbir blades combined, together with the direness of the situation, required from Din a great amount of concentration.</p><p class="p1">Sweat was breaking on Din’s brow. He tried his best to remain composed and impassive. He discovered that keeping himself without expression was almost as effective as wearing a helmet, where foe could not determine how he fared, if he were otherwise barefaced.</p><p class="p1">Naya was trying not to fall for this sort of trick, but sweat had broken on her forehead as well.</p><p class="p1">Where Aikka reverently tested Din for skill and reflexes of body and mind, Naya was much like a contained maelstrom. As Naya hit him time and again, and Din sharply managed his counter-swings and footwork, Din deduced with astonishment that Naya seemed to be a <em>new</em> fighter. Her demeanor was of someone who had hurriedly obtained weaponry and skill in a short but saturated amount of time.</p><p class="p1">One of the more confounding bits of information that Axe offered Din pre-combat was how Mandalore had been under Pacifist rule for a crippling amount of time. Under that anomalous era, all Mandalorians were obligated to keep their weapons and armor in vaults. Openly wearing them without express permission was a grave offense, and those who committed such were immediately thrown to <em>exile</em>.</p><p class="p1">Naya was among those warriors who finally found the necessity of taking out their heritage from a locked box, many years after the Pacifist era had ended, to officially begin practicing the <em>Resol’nare</em> again. Naya’s weapons were new acquisitions, which may have been overeagerness on her part to remedy a long stagnation.</p><p class="p1">However, for a new fighter, Naya had her own fearsome gall, and Din wasn’t sure this time if this earned his respect or an impression of foolhardiness.</p><p class="p1">“<em>AKAANIR</em>, <em>gar besom</em>!” Naya cried out in full Mando’a. <em>Fight me</em>, y<em>ou bastard.</em> Din was taken aback.</p><p class="p1">Yes, Naya was <em>angry</em>.</p><p class="p1">But w<em>hy so?</em> If it were towards him, he had nothing to clue on. Bo-Katan had her reasons for indignation, but Naya was a complete stranger.</p><p class="p1">Naya was persistent. She seemed a few years younger than Din, but her movements betrayed a notion that she possessed a keen knowledge on a more specific field, something other than a raging warpath. She did have an amount of expertise on the weapons, but it occurred to Din that it was not quite the nature of the weapons that formed a threat.</p><p class="p1">It was her technique.</p><p class="p1">Naya knew <em>exactly</em> where to hit.</p><p class="p1">She had been aiming at all his vulnerable spots. Din gritted his teeth numerous times, evading her swings, and staving off blows on parts of his body unguarded by the beskar. And with two blades doing the job—Din held his breath. She had almost successfully struck him in places he had habitually guarded for as long as he wore armor—the strip on both upper legs were his thigh plates did not completely cover, his uppper arms, his sides, the area where his collarbones and shoulders met. They were aimed with terrifyingly <em>clinical</em> precision that Din had to quickly search for a hint on Naya’s fevered mastery.</p><p class="p1">His gaze traveled frantically over any markings on Naya’s armor. And then he saw it—</p><p class="p1">There, furiously painted over with an uneven silver patch on her left pauldron was a once-bright red of the<em> medical sigil. </em></p><p class="p1">Something sunk deeply within Din. Naya may have worn her armor before, and even as she wore beskar, she had kept it for different reasons altogether.</p><p class="p1">Din was momentarily lost in thought that it cost him a seconds-late cue to dodge what could have been a lethal blow.</p><p class="p1">Naya <em>rammed</em> a blade up to his right side—unguarded on that fatal instant—cleanly between the ribs. Din gasped, more so in shock than in pain.</p><p class="p1">The pain was staunched as he had taken a split-second to recover his defenses, locking Naya’s vibrating arbir blade in between Darksaber and a solid, frenetic shove of his vambrace. However, a considerable length of the blade had sought its way through his vest and undersuit, and through <em>flesh</em>.</p><p class="p1">He and Naya remained locked together for a ghastly minute; Naya wore a fleeting expression of victory, which immediately transformed into chagrin when she realized that Din had kept her from plunging the blade any further.</p><p class="p1">Din heard the yelling of the crowd. He and his opponent were caught in an evident struggle of wills, and once again, the first blood to be spilt was his. He felt the wet discomfort of warm blood dripping from within his undersuit. The adrenaline still pumping in his veins temporarily rendered him unable to feel the searing pain. It was but an uncomfortable, buzzing pressure and dampness where the arbir-blade pierced through him.</p><p class="p1">What brought a series of choked cries out of Din was when Naya activated an electric pulse of plasma which coursed through the open wound—but his stubborn survival reflexes asserted themselves at the same instant. He pushed outward with a burst of strength, freeing himself of the plasma weapon.</p><p class="p1">While the plasma may have minimally cauterized the wound, it only sent a spurt of blood flying as Naya forcefully dislodged the blade.</p><p class="p1">A moment of lightheadedness came over Din; he fell to one knee as he clutched his side. Yet he held tightly to the Darksaber.</p><p class="p1">Things were beginning to spiral downward, Din thought grimly. This was where his obstinacy for another fight had taken him. His predicament was entirely <em>his fault.</em></p><p class="p1">“Get up,” Naya hissed. “Are you losing <em>already</em>?”</p><p class="p1">Naya sounded dejected, as if she were not expecting him to be struck down as quickly as he had.</p><p class="p1">Din wracked his brain for words. All his senses frenetically fought for his attention. This would not have been an issue under the secure cocoon of his helmet, but as things were, he needed to ride it out as best as he could.</p><p class="p1">Din lifted a quivering hand, gesturing to Naya’s pauldron on where he saw the hastily painted-over medical sigil.</p><p class="p1">“You… you were a doctor?” He forced the words out in shallow breaths.</p><p class="p1">Naya stiffened at that assumption. Her eyes followed the direction of Din’s gesture, and she gazed upon her own pauldon as if it were an old, detestable specter.</p><p class="p1">The woman seemed to think twice for an answer; her eyes ignited with a fleeting spark.</p><p class="p1">“That’s none of your business, Djarin,” she growled.</p><p class="p1">Din stared <em>into</em> her for a while, and Naya was helpless under that stare. Din did not mean to accuse or to display open wonderment, but it appeared that Naya realized there was more to Din than she initially allowed herself to believe.</p><p class="p1">“You knew which vital points to strike,” Din continued shakily, “all too well. Better than what an average warrior would know. You were in every position to kill me… even as I defended myself…”</p><p class="p1">Naya roared in sudden retort. “If you must <em>know</em>, Djarin, I <em>never</em> had the chance to become a doctor. The Purge <em>ripped</em> that chance <em>away</em> from me!”</p><p class="p1">Din was uncertain if his eyes reflected any sadness or any trickle of empathy. Naya was starting to show a measure of vulnerability.</p><p class="p1">“I was a combat medic during the Purge, piteously <em>striving </em>at field surgery—with incomplete training, as all my teachers were dead! I couldn’t save a lot of my people. I couldn’t reach them soon enough. There were no supplies, no transportation, not enough bacta—there was <em>hardly</em> anything!” She clenched her teeth and twirled the vibro-arbir blades in vain distraction. “The Empire first bombarded the ports where we kept our ships. Then the medical facilities. Then the <em>homes</em>. They knew how to destroy us. They knew <em>when</em> to destroy us!”</p><p class="p1">A distinct chill ran through Din’s body. He had his own nightmares of the Purge, but Naya—she was telling him something very important, something very <em>dear</em> to her.</p><p class="p1"><em>You gotta listen</em>, the Mythrol’s words played in his mind... Even as Din stood there in an injured slump.</p><p class="p1">Naya’s face grew sad and pained; the anger seemed to slowly melt away. She defiantly spoke under her breath so that Din strained to hear her. “One useless leader after another. Pre. Almec. Maul. Bo-Katan. Will you be useless too? All of you, playing god. All <em>useless</em>. What makes you think any of you are better than the other?”</p><p class="p1">Din heard some unfamiliar names, but he caught Naya’s drift. The chill never left his body. The blood continued to flow from the wound underneath his flight suit, yet he found the fortitude to ignore that moment’s weakness and pain. Din knew all too well what it felt to be lost, to be without any cut-clear direction, to face a vast emptiness, searching for answers—some of which he had already given up on.</p><p class="p1">Din steadily came to his feet, still clutching at his side. He carefully made his way to Naya, who harbored the look of a cornered wild beast.</p><p class="p1">To Naya’s intelligible surprise, and even to Din’s own—<em>what was he even thinking?</em>—Din could hear those very words in the minds of the onlookers as well, whether perceived or real…</p><p class="p1">Din slowly turned the ignited Darksaber blade around, so that the hilt was facing Naya, and the edge of it was burning its black bar of flame towards <em>him</em>.</p><p class="p1">“If you think me unworthy,” Din spoke softly, “Use this chance to take the Darksaber and strike me down with it. I’m allowing you to do it as I guide you through, while it’s<em> still</em> in my hand.”</p><p class="p1">Naya’s beautiful, dark eyes were lit with sudden clarity, as she recovered from an infuriating instance of shock. “Wh-what?” she whispered incredulously. “I—“ she paused. “I don’t think that’s how it works, you damn <em>fool</em>…”</p><p class="p1">“It’s been obvious that we were grappling in the dark with the nature of this match,” Din went on. It was beginning to become a feat to simply speak. “Whatever the case, I’m giving you this chance…”</p><p class="p1">As if acutely awoken by a slap, Naya pushed Din’s outstretched arm away from her so that the Darksaber had moved well out of her reach. She, however, did it in a manner so the pulsating blade of energy made no contact whatsoever on Din’s body.</p><p class="p1">Both Din and Naya were speechless for a seemingly long minute. Naya wore a stunned expression, with her eyes not knowing entirely where to focus on.</p><p class="p1">“Keep that accursed thing,” she muttered, referring to the Darksaber. Her eyes lowered, and her breathing slowed down fitfully. With a quick, impatient cry, heard throughout the coliseum, she flung both her weapons to the ground, where they fizzled out and turned into cold metal corpses.</p><p class="p1">Din was about to topple over from a sudden wave of debility when Naya caught his fall. In the process, he had dropped the Darksaber and it deactivated as it hit the ground, but Din remained unperturbed while his own weapon lay there.</p><p class="p1">Naya nodded her head in slow deliberation. “I wouldn’t normally and certainly let a fool win, but I render this victory as yours, Din Djarin,” she said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. “I yield. Time will tell if you truly deserve the title of <em>Mand’alor</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Din grimaced; he soon managed to stay on his feet without needing more of Naya’s assistance. He didn’t know what to make of this particular victory, in this uncustomary manner of yielding. Naya was barely scathed; perhaps the wounds Din dealt on her were not on the surface. He may have uncovered old ones, and she metaphorically bled from them.</p><p class="p1">The commotion among the crowd had reduced to a buzz that crept under one’s skin. It was a cacophony made by small, winged animals trapped in a tiny cage. The spectators themselves were confused, but indeed—what were the set rules? He had won once again—and no one contested the decision. No one seemed too eager to contest Naya on <em>that </em>decision, either. Besides, as far as his memory stretched on, he had one <em>more</em> contender to face that day.</p><p class="p1">With a barely visible shake of his head, Din marveled at his penchant of getting himself into plights like these.</p><p class="p1">“I’d treat that wound myself, Djarin,” Naya said, pointing at the soaked tattered hole of his undersuit, “but I’m not entirely on your side <em>yet</em>.” Her eyes glinted with a coldness unbecoming of someone gripped by a profession based on care—but it was seemingly a ruse. She first made sure that Din kept steadily on his two feet before walking into the shadows and through an unseen exit.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Din beheld the young man who stood in Naya Tyrr’s place no sooner than he had bent to retrieve the fallen Darksaber from the rocky ground. Like an ailing creature which treasured its privacy, he concealed all expression of pain. His side began to burn, but it was a dull throb he had dealt with so many times before in the past. He had not assessed how deep the stab wound was—only he knew that he had dealt with worse before, and survived with many hours alert on his feet.</p><p class="p1">He often likened his Mandalorian training to be both blessing and a curse. He could be very well near death but his mind would instill upon him the belief that he could live a hundred more years. He had been warned many times about the tempting assumptions of invincibility.</p><p class="p1">This was no time to harbor such presumptions, and yet here he was, looking at the young man named Alix in the eye.</p><p class="p1">Alix could very much be well-built underneath his armor painted abundantly with black and grey. The only vividness which stood out were the pinpricks of lighted numbers that indicated the working status of his vambrace weapons. Like Naya before him, Alix had stripped himself of jetpack and other encumbering armaments.</p><p class="p1">It was the color of Alix’s armor which caught Din’s concern.</p><p class="p1">Alix had painted it in the colors of deep mourning, but the paint was no longer fresh. The young man had kept his armor in such a state, perhaps since the early days of the Purge’s aftermath. Din understood too well the burden of loss, but Alix—</p><p class="p1">—the man was armed with and powered by his grief, as Din supposed. He wasn’t one for poetics, but the glower in Alix’s scathing blue eyes gave it away.</p><p class="p1">Din then knew that Alix may be challenging him for reasons which hardly prioritized the Darksaber or the desire to rule, but Din could not merely judge by a man’s eyes, frozen with tears he had been unable to shed.</p><p class="p1">“Alix of House Ordo,” the young man said quietly. “And I am the last of Clan Javell.”</p><p class="p1">Din acknowledged Alix’s introduction to the match with a curt nod. “What weapon will you face me with?”</p><p class="p1">Alix had remained bare-handed. The man’s eyes trailed to Din’s side, and flitted back to Din’s face. Alix must have seen through Din’s facade in his pretense to remain battle-ready.</p><p class="p1">“You seem hurt,” Alix observed. He spoke with a nobleman’s tilt, if Din could presume as much—or one of very <em>learned</em> man. Din certainly failed to fool him, even as Din had furtively hid traces of blood and damage on his suit. He knew he was being stubborn, but he also knew that Emon’s eyes—as well as all eyes—were on him. If he called for another hour of respite, would perceptions of him change? The proud and foolish stranger, biting off more than he can chew, no less haughty and ego-driven than his forebears to the throne?</p><p class="p1"><em>Osik</em>, Din cursed inwardly. There was nothing more bitter than swallowing a pill called sullen pride.</p><p class="p1">He was in the brink of deciding on letting the jury know of his wounded state, as Naya had abandoned the idea of doing it for him, when Alix suddenly grappled at him—Din let out a breath in shock, yet he responded quickly enough by igniting the Darksaber.</p><p class="p1">That, however, had little effect on Alix who already had a grip on his torso. The man was strong, but surprisingly a notch lower than Naya, when the young woman was a warrior newly-trained. What Alix partially lacked in strength, he compensated with an ominous desire to fling his life at the decisive hands of fate.</p><p class="p1">Din now realized how Mandalorian foolhardiness still remained despite a great tragedy—despite Alix’s own personal tragedy—and that it was cemented across the board. The Fighting Corps were hardly immune themselves, despite drilling self-discipline in numerous aspects of their actions.</p><p class="p1">“What—what are you <em>doing</em>?” Din found his voice as he sought his footing, impeding Alix from jostling him across the arena any further. Din reinstalled a sure grip on the Darksaber. Eerily low whistling emanated from the weapon, as if it had quieted itself from its shrill song. “Pick a weapon to defend yourself with…!”</p><p class="p1">“You’re hurt,” Alix riposted, and he dug a hold on Din’s side to prove his point, and Din winced more visibly in pain, “and I’m unarmed. Is that not a fair fight?” Sarcasm was dripping in Alix’s otherwise sophisticated drawl.</p><p class="p1">Din was able to extricate himself from Alix’s grip when he dropped to the ground and rolled away. When Din had resumed an upright stance, he held out the Darksaber to face level, but felt the frustrating reluctance to fully unleash its power on Alix.</p><p class="p1">“Had you allowed me,” Din reasoned, his lungs burning with a muted pain, “I would have asked for a moment of recovery…”</p><p class="p1">“Recovery?” Alix’s handsome face twisted with a small sneer. “Not all of us were afforded the luxury, all those years ago. You think you can play at Mand’alor?”</p><p class="p1">Din was astounded. How many times will that question be tossed at him? Anyone who questioned Din’s claim would but only need to ask through their willingness to<em> defeat</em> him. Alix stood out from all four he had faced today. It was as if all that Alix wanted was proximity with Din, to ask him this willful query face to face, eye to eye… and to prove something else in the process, of which Alix himself seemed undecided on.</p><p class="p1">“You’re grieving,” Din muttered, absently clutching at his side where blood trickled forth once more, and had begun to clot over. “I understand.”</p><p class="p1">To Alix’s credit, the young man was quick with surprise maneuvers. Like a flash of black-hued lightning, he charged low towards Din, held him by the torso once more, and with a vigor Din didn’t realize Alix possessed until that very instant, the younger fighter bodily toppled Din to the ground. Din found himself flat on his back, with the Darksaber, thankfully, still in his hand. Alix pinned him by the shoulder, but only lightly bore down on him with puzzling restraint.</p><p class="p1">Alix’s vehement blue gaze were full of question. “Understand?” the man spat. “Have you ever lost both wife and child, Djarin?”</p><p class="p1">A fog began to clear in Din’s mind. Alix’s black-painted armor bore a justification Din can only respect from that moment onward. But Din needed to answer Alix’s question truthfully.</p><p class="p1">“I lost a father,” Din whispered, knowing Alix can hear, with the man’s face meager inches away from his.</p><p class="p1">Alix shrugged, but now he was unable to meet Din in the eye. “We <em>all</em> lost someone.” Alix lips barely moved to form the words. “We lost our home.”</p><p class="p1">Din struggled underneath Alix’s hold and waited patiently for both the man to continue, and for a rush of adrenaline to overtake him once more. “M-mandalore?”</p><p class="p1">Alix quickly glanced at him, his expression as hard as stone. “I was born on Mandalore. My daughter would have been born on Mandalore. The Purge took her, yet unborn in my wife’s womb. Who are you, Din Djarin—one who has never seen the skies of Mandalore—know of taking back a homeworld you never lost?”</p><p class="p1">A surge of dark anger hit Din, feeling the unjustness of this accusation, yet he couldn’t get himself to protest. Din sought his voice, however.</p><p class="p1">“…Mandalore was the homeworld of my father.”</p><p class="p1">It was true. Raald Movan was born on Mandalore. That much Din had known, during the years following Raald’s death. Raald grew up on Mandalore, fought among his people on Mandalore, until circumstances—as he recently understood—had fully forced his hand to leave all of Mandalore reluctantly, painfully, and into the welcoming arms of the Children of the Watch.</p><p class="p1">Alix landed a hard punch on Din’s uninjured side, and Din cried out—it still burned in spite of it. “You haven’t answered my question. You think yourself fit to rule…?”</p><p class="p1">Din was nearing the last straw. He was all too familiar with the pain of loss—but to lose a wife and a daughter…</p><p class="p1">He had a son, but Grogu was alive and well, and perhaps even <em>thriving</em>, else he would not have entrusted him to the tutelage of a so-called enemy sorcerer…</p><p class="p1">Din struck Alix with the upper hand when he raised a leg and used it to flip the younger man over—it was done so quickly with Din’s remaining slivers of strength, and exhaustion fell like a languid inky blanket over him. Alix seemed to not have expected this move from a critically wounded man, and had tried to fight back by flipping Din over as Din had done so with him.</p><p class="p1">Din was still the more experienced warrior, still the stronger one amidst a dilemma of a deep, untended stab wound. He held Alix fast, unresistingly on his back.</p><p class="p1">Alix’s eyes of the clearest cobalt blue were ablaze. “Answer the question!” the man persisted.</p><p class="p1">Dark spots started clouding Din’s vision. He had never fallen into unconsciousness without the helmet before, but this was a familiar sensation of a rapidly progressing fatigue.</p><p class="p1">“An answer told by words,” Din declared in growing weakness, “doesn’t compare with an answer told by actions…!”</p><p class="p1">It seemed that Alix did not take the reply well—or was too dumbstruck by the gravity of Din’s statement. This time, he had managed to land a punch on Din’s wounded side. Din’s groan of pain was undeniable now. The adrenaline had worn off. Naya had done quite a bit of internal damage and it was consuming him by the second. Din gritted his teeth. He <em>will</em> see this through!</p><p class="p1">Din felt his calm slipping away. In an unexpected move, Din raised the Darksaber, and with a swift stroke, buried it so close to the ground from where Alix’s face lay that a crackling white edge of the blade bit through the skin of Alix’s cheek.</p><p class="p1">Alix couldn’t cry out—instead, he froze in place, his eyes locked on Din’s suffering ones.</p><p class="p1">“Then declare it,” Alix intoned, shakily at first, when the young man finally found his voice.</p><p class="p1">“What?” Din’s vision was swimming in a blur which he began to resist, in all futility.</p><p class="p1">“Declare it,” Alix repeated, more clearly now. “Declare your victory.”</p><p class="p1">Din no longer had his full vitality within him to weigh the sincerity of Alix’s words. The cut on Alix’s cheek did not bleed, but formed an angry, blackened line—a visible scar that would remain there forever.</p><p class="p1">“Just declare your victory, Din Djarin!” Alix spat, and despite this frantic proposition, he still refrained from making sudden movements lest the Darksaber planted at the side of his face cut him further. “I yield! You <em>are </em>the victor—so declare it!”</p><p class="p1">Din found himself unable to get on his feet. When he pushed himself up, it felt as though he were pushing an entire mountain from under him. The words were lodged in his throat.</p><p class="p1">“Damn it,” he heard Alix say. The young man, however, carefully lifted Din’s weight away from himself, but he whispered to him loud enough for Din’s failing consciousness to decipher. “Hold on to the Darksaber as I hoist you up, Djarin…”</p><p class="p1">Din did as he was told… but the ground swam beneath him, and the sky was suddenly a molten amethyst veil above his head. He did not see Aikka approach him and Alix, bidding Alix to lift Din on one side so Aikka could support him on the other.</p><p class="p1">Din lifted his weary eyes to see that Naya had returned within view, waiting by the outskirts as though ready to receive a patient sorely in need of treatment.</p><p class="p1">The roar of the crowd sounded so far away. Everything seemed surreal. Din lifted his eyes further as the glint of silver met the corner of his eye. He looked up at the tier he knew where Emon stood watch with the rest of the young Mandalorians, the children he had sought to assure of a future in this broken galaxy—</p><p class="p1">Emon was subtly lifting Grogu’s little silver ball for him to see. He couldn’t clearly make out Emon’s expression, but he knew in his heart of hearts that Emon still rooted for him, even as he could be in his dying throes… yet he doubted that. What Aikka proclaimed to the crowd in a full, booming voice that rang across the wide open clearing ascertained him of a place where he not only needed to survive… but to honorably live for.</p><p class="p1">“Sushir, Mando'ade! Ibic gar Mand’alor!”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Listen, Mando’ade. Behold your Mand’alor.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Din took in the final seconds of full consciousness to comprehend the chants of <em>Oya! Oya! Oya! </em>slowly building in volume, echoing across the coliseum.</p><p class="p1">Was this it? Was this how it felt to be finally accepted by a people of a Way which had been all too foreign to him, and his Way which all had been too foreign to theirs?</p><p class="p1">Aikka himself had declared it for him in his weakened state. Alix had encouraged him to do so himself in the first place… and Naya, who now wore on her face a tinge of regret, was beckoning both Alix and Aikka to take Din to her, in atonement for the damage her ruinous weapon had on him.</p><p class="p1">The last image which Din beheld before finally succumbing to utter exhaustion was Bo-Katan staring at him from afar, glassy-eyed, but with her head slightly bowed in a rare display of acquiescence.</p><p class="p1">The crowd continued to cheer on.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I almost forgot to let ya’ll know that I did minor editing in the summary, as well as in some of the chapters. The timeline has changed slightly as well as the detail of Din not ever seeing Raald’s face to seeing it only after he passed the verd’goten. Additionally, I kinda made up how the verd’goten goes. I only know from our trusty Wookieepedia that it’s a coming-of-age ritual with trials. Also, the medic’s sigil in the Star Wars universe looks different from ours, of course. Lastly: the vibro-arbir blade prototype Naya uses is similar to that which the red guards in the throne room fight scene in “The Last Jedi” were using to defend Snoke. Just took a bit of inspiration from that, if anything. xD</p><p>Hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter! So sorry for the slow updates, but will amp up the volume with at least 2 chapters a week when I’m not busy. &lt;3 Comments are always much appreciated! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Look To The Horizon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Luke Skywalker returns to Dagobah with Grogu. In the meantime, Din wakes up to his first day as Mand’alor—which, he knew, was just the calm before the storm.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thought I’d do an update this weekend and see how updating twice a week would work out for me. :) This’ll be a bit of a lighthearted one, to take a small teensy weensy break from the heavy stuff of the last chapters. So… kick back and relax with this chapter… I suppose? xD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 9: Look To the Horizon</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">A barely audible rumble filled the hazy skies of Dagobah.</p><p class="p1">Little Grogu immediately heeded the sound, Luke observed. His huge green ears snapped back and his fuzzy head turned to its direction with whittling patience. The child had scarcely begun his early morning meditations with Luke when he decided that the trembling reverberations in the sky were more worthy of his undivided <em>attention</em>—which, Luke thought with a sigh, had been a struggle to keep.</p><p class="p1">“You thought it was your father’s ship,” Luke told the child gently. It wasn’t a question, and Grogu, whose round, verdant cheeks colored a little with a toddler’s rosiness, tried his best not to affirm what Luke had said. He cooed as quietly as he could, and Luke, with a tinge of his own melancholy, noted the sadness in the child’s tone.</p><p class="p1">Luke could not blame the child. He knew that he had practically ripped Grogu from the Mandalorian’s embrace upon his arrival on the Imperial light cruiser; he had only known earlier from Grogu’s own report that he and the child’s adoptive father had only reunited very shortly before that.</p><p class="p1">It had only been a little over a week since that incident, but it had taken Luke far longer to heed what he now knew was Grogu’s widespread call for any living Jedi across a good part of the known galaxy.</p><p class="p1">Luke had been on his way to the planet Chandrila—the seat of the New Republic—to visit his sister, Leia, as he comfortably flew his X-Wing with his brother-in-law Han jabbing at him through the comms, when he felt a tug at his mind. He hadn’t felt <em>anything</em> like it before, in all truth. It was the sensation of a feather-light touch, indicating the innocence of its sender, but at the same time there was another one—rock-heavy and mist-filled—a sense of being lost, close to a distress call. There seemed to be little urgency, however. It was a casual call for assistance, like someone needing keys to a home in the morning when they would be returning for dinner.</p><p class="p1">He couldn’t enjoy the first few hours of his visit with Leia and her family, as the pull of the call kept him distracted throughout the day. He couldn’t even catch Han’s snarky cues at the lunch table, enough for Han to grumble like an old engine and for Leia to worry. She had told him afterwards to ignore Han’s semi-drunk griping (he had a bit of wine that afternoon), and spend all the time he needed alone. Luke marveled at how he and his sister connected in dire times like these. He had often wondered what it would have been like if they had grown up together.</p><p class="p1">He waved that wistful thought away.</p><p class="p1">All night, Luke kept to his quarters in troubled meditation. He even tried to call for Ben Kenobi’s help, or Master Yoda’s, as Luke sensed the latter would be perfect for this occasion. It had not been clear to him yet that the call came from one of Master Yoda’s species, but it was apparent that it was a <em>child</em>, and a <em>powerful</em> one at that.</p><p class="p1">Dawn came, and still Luke kept to his meditation. He neither slept nor waited for dreams to mire his visions. He needed a crystal-cut path as a sign to heed this call, for once he heeded it, the initial path he had set for himself, years after the Rebellion’s victory on Endor, would change a great deal.</p><p class="p1"><em>Go to the little one, you must</em>—came a wispy voice in Luke’s mind, which he had been all too familiar with. <em>Your guidance, he needs. Hrrrmmm. Lost, he is. Unhappy, he is not. Unloved, he is not. With a guardian, he is… but a teacher, he needs. Yes. A teacher. </em></p><p class="p1"><em>Master Yoda</em>, Luke replied with his own wisp-thought, towards the Force that enveloped all things. And Luke knew what must be done.</p><p class="p1">Taking leave later that day, Luke set out in his X-Wing to the source of the call. Luke still knew little of Tython, although he was certainly <em>aware </em>of its existence, but the pull of the Force led him further and further away from the deep core planet, into the reaches of the Outer Rim. For the past year, Luke had been making his way across the galaxy in search of ancient Jedi relics. His first stop had been the near-dilapidated Coruscant temple, where a library had once stood. There had only been so much, as a few relics and texts have been preserved from Sith destruction.</p><p class="p1">He had to look further out and away for the more consequential ones, the ones that heralded back to the Old Republic, and perhaps even earlier.</p><p class="p1">However, his quest was somehow cut short—rather, interrupted—when he heeded Grogu’s call. This was huge, Luke decided. This was <em>important</em>. The Force was very <em>strong</em> in the little green child. He had literally cut through his way during the rescue, only slightly non-plussed with the reckless guard of battle droids littered across the ship. Artoo followed suit, mirroring Luke’s calmness as he sliced through the droids like the spongey crepe cake his dear, late Aunt Beru had served him as a small boy.</p><p class="p1">He reached the child, and he reached the Mandalorian whom the child called <em>father</em>. Both of different species, and the infant older by many years, but the bond was distinctly <em>there</em>. It was as plain as day for Luke to see, which had him hesitate for a fraction of a second about whisking Grogu away into a future yet unknown.</p><p class="p1">He had looked into the Mandalorian’s eyes, dampened by tears that were yet to fall.</p><p class="p1">Without much thought, Luke knew that the Force was strong <em>in this Mandalorian</em> as well—definitely not in its discernible potency like Luke’s own when he first began, but Luke <em>felt</em> it, nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">At that moment, however, his priority—as Master Yoda guided him towards—was the child. A small juvenile of his late Master’s species.</p><p class="p1">The child and his father said their momentary goodbyes. Luke knew of the staunch promise in the Mandalorian’s words.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“I’ll see you again.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">Now, in this very morning on Dagobah before the relentless season of rain soon began, Grogu had, at once, held on to that promise. Luke noticed, with growing affection for the child, that Grogu would alert himself whenever something like the vibration of a passing ship arched across Dagobah’s orbit.</p><p class="p1">“Not a ship, Grogu,” Luke reminded the child with moderate sternness. “Only thunder as the rains slowly approach.”</p><p class="p1">Dagobah had but two seasons—drought and flood, only mild exaggerations. When Luke first came to find Master Yoda, the season of flood had just made its way across the planet. Years later, and under this very sky, the season of drought had just completed its course.</p><p class="p1">The child had introduced himself through pure thought. His name was Grogu. The Mandalorian’s name was Din, and Din was like a father to him, if not a father outright. Grogu loved the Mandalorian. Luke’s heart warmed like the sands of Tatooine on a mild, pleasant day as he listened to Grogu’s brief stories in his toddling, piecemeal thoughts.</p><p class="p1">Luke heaved an even deeper sigh. He and his newly-acquired student were uphill, and it was cooler there, and the air fresher—not like the dismal swamps below, which was not very ideal for a child to be confined in for too long. Still, at the end of each training day (this would be the fourth), Luke and Grogu would make their way to Master Yoda’s decrepit stone hut, which Luke had regularly visited and maintained well enough since his passing. Grogu had slept rather fitfully, even with his tummy full from small amphibious snacks. Luke watched over him when he could, just in case a nightmare led him to more clues of the child’s past.</p><p class="p1">“Grogu,” called Luke to the child, returning to the present. The child reluctantly turned to him with his huge, soulful eyes. Luke stifled a smile. He knew at once why a battle-scarred Mandalorian would fall for such an innocent creature. “You have to focus on your own path for now, little one. Just for now. And your father has to focus on his. Don’t worry—“ Luke cut in as Grogu emitted a distraught, thin wailing, “—you’ll see each other again sooner than you think. Well,” Luke pondered, feeling a little ridiculous, “I… I didn’t give your father my name. Not a lot know yet that Commander Skywalker and Luke the Jedi Knight are one and the same. Huh. Well, damn. I thought I gave my name! And he doesn’t even know where we’re going…”</p><p class="p1">Grogu gurgled in righteous agreement.</p><p class="p1">Luke cleared his throat and caught his bearings with a teacher’s dignity. “I think it’s best that way… again, just <em>for now</em>. Besides, little one—your father’s a <em>Mandalorian</em>. They’re skilled trackers. At least, as far as I <em>know</em>.” Luke’s memory of Boba Fett trickled with some nuisance into his thoughts. He cheerily resumed, “There’s no place in the galaxy we could hide from your father, even if we tried! So… keep that chin up. That’s right! Now, if you’d focus once more, we can begin our meditation again.”</p><p class="p1">With small protestations from Grogu, and a whine from Artoo who patiently sizzled under the balmy Dagobah sun, student and teacher both closed their eyes and let the portent of thunder loom above their heads.</p><p class="p1">As twilight set later that day, an epiphany had come upon Luke: that his new teachings would incorporate the possibility of attachments—and to work <em>with</em> these attachments, and never against them.</p><p class="p1">It was never wise working against the pure nature of love.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Emon and Oryn were restlessly fumbling at their target practice in silence for many hours since dawn had enfolded the Concord Dawn moon.</p><p class="p1">Emon felt like he hadn’t been like himself since Din had completely lost consciousness soon after Aikka declared Din’s victory across the vibrantly amethyst-lit clearing, where everyone were yelling hoarsely nearly out of their wits.</p><p class="p1">At least, that’s how it had sounded to Emon.</p><p class="p1">There were more pleasant cheers of disbelief than painfully disheartened ones. Emon himself had been in a half-trance as everyone around him patted him on the back, on the shoulder—and the little more mean-spirited ones ruffled his hair, reminding him that he hadn’t exactly hit the full potential of his growth spurt yet. Emon fumed in the midst of the quaking excitement in his heart.</p><p class="p1">He broke away from the congratulatory tangle and hastily made his way to where Aikka and Alix were taking Din, but Van and Drali were there as well. With a firmer hand, they barred him from a closer approach to the now-unconsciousness victor.</p><p class="p1">There was a flurry of movement and a torrent of voices. Naya was giving instructions. Zia Vauss had hurried to Naya’s side. Even Lieutenant Axe Woves had bounded his way to the small gathering, informing Naya of a medical droid which they had saved and stored from the Purge, and had remained unused since then.</p><p class="p1">“Is he gonna be all right?” Emon heard himself ask, voiced cracking, to nobody in particular, and to anyone who heard.</p><p class="p1">It was Van who answered, his usual facade of nonchalance wavering. “We don’t know yet, Emon. It doesn’t look like it is at first, but he’s kinda hurt pretty bad…”</p><p class="p1">Emon stood stiffly there, unable to willingly confirm Van’s words for himself.</p><p class="p1">Drali gently placed an arm around his younger brother and lightly shoved him to the side. “They’ll take him to medical bay. Or maybe his tent. We really don’t have much in medical bay.” Drali’s own eyes reflected Emon’s furrow-browed concern. “Just stay out of trouble, pipsqueak. We’ll let you know if he’s okay once we get the word.”</p><p class="p1">That was enough assurance for Emon… at least for that moment. However, evening passed and he had hardly slept through it, and now morning came, and with appetite for any breakfast lost, decided to take his blaster and ask for the company of Oryn (who looked better than he did, and obliged). The late morning saw both boys practicing the mastery of their shots upon the sturdy, cork-like substance that jutted naturally from the moon’s crust, and served as perfect stationary targets.</p><p class="p1">They wordlessly fired their blasters, shots paced in scattered randomness, and to Emon’s frustration, he had missed the target more than he had met it, which was a miniscule dark grey dot in the middle of the jutting rock.</p><p class="p1">Emon felt the perceivable weight of the tiny silver ball which Din have him safe-keep in one of his belt pouches. He had studied it with some obsession the night before, not knowing at all why it seemed so dear to the man.</p><p class="p1">Emon fired another shot, and it barely grazed the target.</p><p class="p1">“Dank farrik,” Emon growled, getting incensed by the minute.</p><p class="p1">Oryn fired his shot and it missed the target by a mere millimeter. The older youth clicked his tongue in his own growing frustration. “Chill, Emon. He’ll pull through. It’ll suck if he just become our Mand’alor, and suddenly—he’s not.”</p><p class="p1">Emon huffed.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, it’ll suck,” Emon finally returned conversation.</p><p class="p1">Emon raised his blaster again, and fired, kicking dust on the target.</p><p class="p1">This time, he hit it squarely—and that was when he heard footfalls rushing towards them.</p><p class="p1">Emon quickly acknowledged that bit of tumult, knowing what those footsteps entailed. It was Van, and his face was taut but his eyes were bright.</p><p class="p1">“Emon!” Van called. “Emon—the Mand’alor’s awake, and he—“</p><p class="p1">Before Van could utter another word to complete his message, Emon had slung his blaster over his shoulder and relentlessly sprinted to the tent, which they all knew now was the makeshift dwelling of their rightful, sole leader.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Din’s eyes flew open in a sudden surge of wakefulness.</p><p class="p1">A second’s worth of panic hit his chest as he looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling, his senses picking up smells and sounds of an unfamiliar environment, and he felt his breath linger like lead in his throat before he realized where he was, and the hour he had awakened upon.</p><p class="p1"><em>Mandalore</em>, his mind was telling him, even though the planet, and even as they were in the same sector, was parsecs away.</p><p class="p1">Din lay there, staring at the drab ceiling of his tent, the sun smothered by the closed window flaps. Din knew, however, that he had awoken a little past the eleventh hour of the day in his own reckoning.</p><p class="p1">He tried to move his body, and was assaulted by biting aches and grating pain. He winced in silent agony, feeling the pain center itself on his right side and pool to his torso and back. He then recalled the events of the day before, and the bitter and coppery taste of blood lingered in his mouth.</p><p class="p1">He froze when he heard an electric-sounding drizzle rattle its way towards him.</p><p class="p1">“I see that you are awake, sir,” came a surprisingly warm but still-apparent mechanical voice that could only belong to a droid.</p><p class="p1">Din’s senses suddenly flared out to full alert, and he quickly fumbled for his blaster.</p><p class="p1">It was nowhere near him, and his heart beat wildly in his chest.</p><p class="p1">“You must calm down, sir. You’re aggravated,” came the drawl of the droid, stating the obvious.</p><p class="p1">Din clenched his teeth and shut his eyes, forcing on himself a semblance of calm—just as the droid suggested. His measured breathing only prodded at the pain in his body, and it came in shuddering gasps.</p><p class="p1">He slowly opened his eyes again, and faced the source of the metallic voice—the slightly bulky form of a 2-1B-series medical droid had loomed partly over him, but just stood there, keeping its mechanical arms to itself.</p><p class="p1">“Good morning, sir,” greeted the droid, and said and did nothing more.</p><p class="p1">Din cared not to reply—after all, are they not non-living beings?—and decided to gather a long moment to assess the room he had been confined in to recuperate.</p><p class="p1">It was the same tent that had been assigned to him upon his arrival, but it seemed to have been tidied up considerably. Further to the side of the cot was a small, half-empty bacta container and some surgical tools, already clean and sterilized from their first use. On the other side of the cot was a table, and thereupon it was his beskar helmet, a respectful distance from the bedside. Close-by and well within his view was a proper steel frame for a whole cuirass of armor to be displayed upright, and sure enough, his now-laundered and repaired undersuit and vest, as well as the rest of his armor with his belt and blaster holsters, hung reverently over it.Din looked up, and his beskar spear hung vertically on the far end of the tent, seemingly polished to its glorious pre-combat shine.</p><p class="p1">Din swallowed hard. He had never been treated like this before, with everything cleanly in order upon waking. He was uncertain of the emotions this sort of new arrangement gave him, and decided to touch on that later…</p><p class="p1">The tent door flap opened carefully, and two figures made their way inside. One was the subtly contrite but relieved face of Naya Tyrr, and the other was Zia, the clan elder who had appeared to watch over him like an old guardian mother since his arrival—and Din felt an odd warmth of heart overcome him.</p><p class="p1">“The droid sent us a signal and let us know you’re awake,” Naya’s jarringly calm voice met his ears. It was very different from the snarling rage which had been flung on him the day before.</p><p class="p1">Din took a moment to even mouth out a reply. “Th-thank you…”</p><p class="p1">Zia’s regally impassive face bore on him, only softened when Din’s face momentarily crumpled from a wash of pain. “You’re one lucky bastard, I should say,” the matron said with a matter-of-fact curtness. “Had another challenger stepped in—the Maker forbid—you’d probably be joining the <em>manda</em> far sooner than any of us would’ve deemed.”</p><p class="p1">The <em>manda</em>—the oversoul. A life after death, so to speak, joining the spirits of Mandalorians who have all gone before. Din wondered if his soul would’ve made it to the <em>manda</em> had he not come upon creeds other than the Way, knowing that he had broken his vow towards it.</p><p class="p1">Din couldn’t find a reply to that, as he lay half-reeling from all what had transpired quickly in the past couple of days.</p><p class="p1">Naya tapped on the medical droid’s shoulder, and it swiveled away silently out of the tent, much to Din’s relief. He gauged then and there that his intense dislike for droids had not completely left him yet.</p><p class="p1">“I must apologize,” Naya’s voice broke the silence afterwards. “I underestimated the lethality of the weapons. Or perhaps—I estimated them as they were, but have been reckless in handling them. I—I nearly killed you…”</p><p class="p1">Din lightly shook his head. His movements betrayed one who still remained unaccustomed to living life out of the helmet. “I’m alive, and you patched me up,” he relayed hoarsely. “I’m grateful.”</p><p class="p1">It was Zia who broke that second moment of oppressive silence. “The boy, Emon,” she stated, with a defeated tone of fondness. “He had been eager to know the moment you have awoken. I cannot blame him. He had been rallying for you almost the moment after you stirred our cozy little hive.”</p><p class="p1">Din realized that Zia had her own delightful, often sardonic take on words, although she dared hide that she was enjoying the prattle. Din felt the warmth cascade to his heart once more.</p><p class="p1">“Wh-where is Emon?” Din inquired of Zia, and the older woman’s eyes twinkled with a streak of affection, and promptly had Van fetch “the young rascal”— in her own words. Then she and Naya took their leave.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Upon entering the recesses of the tent, Emon saw Din struggle to sit up from his pillows, which quickly spurred the boy forward to help the man rest his back comfortably on the steel-framed headrest.</p><p class="p1">Emon realized that he was now truly at the presence of the<em> Mand’alor</em>—and he tried his best not to quail, but Din was looking at him assuredly, his gentle dark eyes forming a smile that could not be formed on his lips.</p><p class="p1">“S-sir…” Emon began, his young face twisting with unbidden worry.</p><p class="p1">“I hear you’ve been loyal to my side since the first hour,” Din simply told him, and Emon froze, his eyes inadvertently widening—and he wasn’t sure if it were embarrassment or wonder. With that, Emon remained speechless, but what he lacked in words, the boy made for his actions. He reached into one of his pouches and brought out the small, silver ball which the new Mand’alor had entrusted to him.</p><p class="p1">Slowly, Emon handed it to Din, and Din, with equal care, held a calloused palm up to take it from the boy.</p><p class="p1">“You’re an excellent safe-keeper,” Din informed him, with no trace of the man patronizing him as most people would because of his youth and stature.<br/><br/>Emon nodded, face flushing, but before he could stop his mouth from a torrent of excited babbling, the words just flew right out of his mouth, a sudden contrast from the stark silence he displayed not a second ago.</p><p class="p1">“That ball,” Emon sputtered. “I-it’s <em>not</em> a ball. It’s a gear shift knob… from a pre-Empire, two-engine gunship, with a type-2 hyperdrive,” and he dutifully punctuated with, “about thirty years old, if not a bit more.”</p><p class="p1">Din was now staring at him, visibly awestruck.<br/><br/>Emon felt the immediate need to explain himself, even if Din’s eyes indicated that there was entirely no need, and that the man was simply basking in that information, as if it were a faraway, rusting memory.</p><p class="p1">“I like studying ships, Sir,” Emon clarified. “All kinds, all the way from the Old Republic. I kinda got used to it, because I’ve been constantly surrounded by such information since I was really little. You see, Sir—Drali and I had parents who… who had worked for MandalMotors.” It was strange talking about his parents who were now long gone, but this was Din, a soul who Emon strangely, unequivocally trusted from the beginning, so he continued: “My dad was a ship designer, and my mom was an engineer who worked on ship parts. Of course, that was long before… before—“</p><p class="p1">Din sensed the boy’s effort to go on. “I—I understand, Emon,” he said kindly. “That—“ the man sought the words, “The information you gave on this shift knob was extraordinarily accurate. Yes. It was from my ship. I lost it not long ago. This… this is all I have left of it…” Din trailed off, seemingly unsure of how and where to continue.</p><p class="p1">Emon rested his eyes on Din’s momentarily doleful form before he spoke again in all reluctance. “Is—is that why you keep it, Sir? To remember it by?” He felt rather silly right after. He knew that a lot of Mandalorians had loved their ships, to the point that they almost seemed like mistresses (a thought which made Emon blush when Drali had made the uncouth comparison), but Emon somehow knew that there was more to the knob that he was not yet privy to.</p><p class="p1">A ghost of a smile laced Din’s lips, still pale from the previous day’s exertion. “Yes… and no,” the man whispered in all pensiveness. “This gear shift was also a toy—my son’s little plaything which he loves very much.”</p><p class="p1">Emon’s eyes instantly lit up, and he knew that his very apparent change of mood had not gone unnoticeable to Din. “You have a son, Sir?” Contained joy filled the cracks in his voice.</p><p class="p1">Din simply nodded. “He’s a foundling.”</p><p class="p1">Emon knew that his straightforwardness can be more bane than boon when he jumped to the next question with little thought: “Where is he, Sir?”</p><p class="p1">Emon bit his lip when Din’s countenance seemed to dip, and some light had drawn away from his eyes. Emon felt at loss, and mentally kicked himself in the shins for his rudeness.</p><p class="p1">Nonetheless, Din was gracious enough to answer, in the same pensive tone he had used earlier. “He is… training with a good teacher.” The man spoke the words as though to assure himself as well as Emon. “He needs a better teacher than me at the moment, Emon. He’s a <em>very</em> special kid.”</p><p class="p1">There was a pull in Emon’s heart, and he felt as though that in that moment, he relived a day under the doting gaze of his own father, who—along with his mother—had been casualties of the Purge. Rather than mournful emptiness, Emon found a wonderful comfort in Din’s quietness afterwards.</p><p class="p1">“Well, Sir,” Emon found his voice after a while, basking in a mutual, nostalgic silence. “I do hope to meet your son one day!” He crammed some cheer in his delivery; Din looked up, moving his entire head like an automaton, which still fazed Emon a little, but he could tell that the man appreciated it.</p><p class="p1">“That would be nice,” Din replied, his brows wrinkling solemnly, thoughtfully. “You <em>will </em>get to meet him someday.”</p><p class="p1">The tentflap rippled ever-so-slightly, and it was Drali this time who entered and had come to fetch his younger brother. Drali snapped a satisfyingly full salute at Din, which Din weakly returned, before the older youth turned his gaze to Emon with a small frown.</p><p class="p1">“Time’s up, twerp,” Drali grumbled, to Din’s visible amusement of how the brothers seamlessly switched from painstaking formalities to full sibling banter in a matter of seconds. “You’ve bothered the Mand’alor two minutes too long. He needs to rest. Now git.”</p><p class="p1">Emon grumbled, but Din had returned to a more hearty-humored part of himself, and jestingly swatted the boy off his bedside, which the latter readily complied with.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, and Emon—“ the Mand’alor called to him once again, and Emon figured he would have to get used to it.</p><p class="p1">The youth pointedly turned back and instantly had Din’s full attention. “Yes, Sir?”</p><p class="p1">Din’s voice, still fatigued but had grown more concise since Emon first heard it that morning, expressed in a tone so jovial that the boy could hardly believe his ears:<br/><br/>“I know I’m a day late. Happy birthday.”</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Everyone had refused to accept their bet money back, to Emon’s definite surprise. He willingly and personally went from tent to tent of those who had settled their bets on their favored contender the day before, but they either tried to ignore him or shake their heads.</p><p class="p1">It was Erissa Lyl, the eldest among the youngsters who had shared a tier on the coliseum, who voiced out the matter. “It’s okay, Emon. We’re all donating it… to the,” she thought of a term, “Reclamation Fund.”</p><p class="p1">Emon didn’t need further explanation, even if Erissa proceeded to do so anyway. They all knew that their meager contribution hardly scratched the surface of a what could be a thousand layers, but to <em>reclaim</em> Mandalore, one would need credits to spend—and war, as they all knew, was <em>never, ever</em> cheap.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading through this fluffy chapter, lol. Did some research on Dagobah and its seasons, and now I’m missing the wise ol’ Master Yoda and his funny speech patterns. &lt;3 As always, I’d dearly appreciate feedback, as I consider suggestions that any of you would have to make this fic more entertaining and more solid for you guys! Big high-fives as I send this off. :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Darkness In All Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Cara Dune has transferred Moff Gideon to the hands of the New Republic, but events take a worrisome turn when Cara realizes that things aren’t exactly what they seem with whom she has always believed were the “the good guys.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hullo thar, I bring an update! This story kinda keeps morphing on its own *sheepish chuckle*, and everytime I go through the outline to start a new chapter, some ideas pop up here and there. So… at the risk of sounding all over the place, I have been doing a bit of editing in earlier chapters, recently on Chapter 4 (“Half-Empty, Half-Full”). But I try not to make the changes too major so you good folk don’t have to re-read to get the drift going forward, but feel free to do so if you’re so inclined. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 10: A Darkness In All Things</b>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Carasynthia Dune entered the mess hall of the Marauder-class New Republic corvette as discreetly as she could. She only had a few hours’ rest prior, and was currently on a quest for something light to eat. She remarkably didn’t have a full appetite, but being an ex-soldier reminded her time and again that she needed to be “well-oiled” as best as she could—<em>just in case</em>.</p><p class="p1">It was a habit she refused to break, even as she had proclaimed her early retirement. It was just the way she was, she decided. Some traits she knew she would keep possessing until her dying day.</p><p class="p1">She thanked her stars that the mess hall was nearly empty, save for three X-Wing squadron pilots at a far end, completely at ease and clearly treasuring an hour’s (or two) respite. She recognized one of them—a man named Trapper Wolf, who had accompanied Captain Teva when they did an investigative run on Nevarro after the Imperial Remnant laboratory incident. Somehow, she expected him to be here, as she had touched base with Captian Teva the day before. She’d lost count of time, however. They were all here, cooped up in this transport patrol ship for who knows how long, rendering maximum security and yet without hailing too much attention, transporting a most wanted ex-ISB officer to who-knows-where. She needed another briefing for certain; a full one. It was partially through her efforts that the Moff was even captured at all.</p><p class="p1">But it was Din’s sacrifice of laying down his lifelong Creed which had brought them to where they were now. They would not have located Gideon’s light cruiser, whose coordinates were highly encrypted and only available to those without a dubious record, should they even manage to get past security. Din mysteriously came through, but he never thought twice about anything when it came to the little green infant—whose name Cara recently had known as <em>Grogu</em>. She had smiled at the name when Din pointedly told her, as her heart broke at the same time for her friend who, with every fiber of his being needed to retrieve a beloved child. But as it was, one event after another happened, one fight after another fell upon their lap, and Grogu had been spirited away by his teacher, and that part of Din’s quest had been fulfilled—only for him to embark on another one.</p><p class="p1">Cara sighed, furrowing her brows.</p><p class="p1"><em>A Mand’alor</em>. If Din decided to take that mantle, then he would certainly be <em>no ordinary</em> Mandalorian from then on. He would carry authority and power over things that mattered—but no longer just to himself, but for an entire people.</p><p class="p1"><em>Sucks to be you</em>, <em>buddy</em>, Cara wanted to playfully jab at her friend. She absently plucked a can of seltzer from a counter. Things were rapidly changing for her and for people she cared about. After being promoted to Special Enforcement, with a wider reach on sweeping planets for more Imperial Remnants with a good-sized arsenal, she knew that she could possibly be in a situation close to Din’s—that the decisions she made were no longer for herself alone.</p><p class="p1">She took her place on one of the empty tables, all surgically clean and sparkling, and took a sip of her water.</p><p class="p1">“…D’ya remember how long the galaxy recovered after the war?” came a low voice that sought conversation. Cara figured that it belonged to Trapper. The stillness of the place blew the words right to her range of hearing.</p><p class="p1">“It wasn’t the same for everyone, though,” another interjected, a female voice with a sharp and phlegmatic tilt. “Core planets recovered more quickly due to New Republic aid. Mid-Rim was still in shambles when I got there a year after. Parts of the Outer Rim surprisingly took the worst hit. It appears the Empire had been trying to suck some Outer Rim planets dry of resources to fuel their army and weapons.” She paused, seemingly for a bite or a sip. “And with the war over, several crime syndicates kept their holdouts and made pretty good chaos in some territories.”</p><p class="p1">The third voice that joined the small, contained fray of thoughts was more pensive—another male, deeper and somewhat ephemeral, as if the speaker’s mind wandered often. “My planet had it <em>bad</em>,” he began. “Experienced one of the worst winters right after the war, and not because of the climate—<em>no</em>.” The pause that followed had a near-oppressive solemn heaviness. “It was like any cold winter, but—there was no food. Not enough supplies. And the ships that brought them have always been raided. Families were starving. One morning, a family discovered their father missing, only to find him lying dead and frozen on the way to the next town, perhaps to ask for aid.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Kriffin’ hell</em>,” Trapper whispered. It was apparent that this was a piece of story he had never heard from his fellow pilot before. It was moments like these, of uncertain length of seeming quietness, when soldiers could stretch their legs and <em>talk</em>.</p><p class="p1">“All comms were spotty, but on that particular week, they’ve been shut down <em>completely</em>, so no one knew the condition of neighboring towns…” The man seemed unable to continue, as an even longer silence followed.</p><p class="p1">“I think,” offered the female voice, which had fallen to the pained contemplation in line with the previous speaker’s, “should another war happen, and even if everyone believed we’d be ready…” There was ballast in the words that punctuated her statement. “We’d <em>never</em> be ready. War is a <em>monster</em>. A volatile thing.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah,” Trapper thoughtfully agreed, with almost no hesitation.</p><p class="p1">Cara felt mildly aghast at what seemingly sparse faith these pilots had in the slowly encompassing New Republic. However, in her heart of hearts, she also knew where these wayward perspectives came from. Each war that the galaxy suffered through had taken away far more than it had given out. But some wars needed to be fought, no matter the circumstances, and many of those in high positions often struggled to justify the crippling consequences that followed.</p><p class="p1">Finally, Cara decided to clear her throat intrusively, letting her presence be known. To her satisfaction, the three pilots’ attention turned to her.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t mean to cut into the campfire, but mind if I join you guys?”</p><p class="p1">The woman and the other man with Trapper stared at her as though she were an unknown species, both in a strange trance of encountering yet another presence apart from theirs. It was Trapper who seemed to recognized her, and to Cara’s relief, replied with a cheery, “Yeah—yeah, sure!”</p><p class="p1">When Cara took a seat among Trapper and his companions, she attempted to brightly raise her can of water to toast to nothing in particular, before she took an unceremonious sip.</p><p class="p1">“Marshal Carasynthia Dune?” the woman loudly wondered at her identity, as presence of mind jolted in her—and she was correct, of course. Cara met her gaze. The woman appeared close to middle age, yet the spunk of the fight remained in her eyes which belied her earlier words on war. She had an authoritative air, possibly of rank close to Carson Teva’s.</p><p class="p1">“Where are my manners?” Cara sputtered in her drink in jest, and reached a hand out to clasp any friendly arm in fellowship. All three pilots gave her the courtesy, and Cara’s heart warmed a fraction. “Yes—that’s me. Just call me <em>Cara</em>. It’s—it’s no big deal.”</p><p class="p1">“I guess you’ve seen me around,” Trapper smilingly volunteered for introductions. “Trapper Wolf.” His palm flitted upon his chest to indicate his person, and with a sweep of his hand, he named his two co-squadron members. “Sash Ketter, and Jib Dodger. We patrol parts of the Outer Rim… well, as you already know.”</p><p class="p1">Sash was the woman, and Jib was the other man, many inches taller than Cara herself, and Cara already fancied herself taller than most in Alderaanian standards.</p><p class="p1">Sash and Jib nodded in acknowledgment to their names, but remained impassive as they seemed uncertain as to where to take conversation from there.</p><p class="p1">“Nice to meet you,” were Jib’s warm, polite words, and nothing came after.</p><p class="p1">Trapper seemed to possess a skill of breaking the ice, unbeknownst even to himself. He had the sunniest disposition among the three, and was openly friendly to those Captain Teva found surety in.</p><p class="p1">But what Trapper told her next felt like the very bombs that had dropped on her and her troops in past unrelenting attacks by the Imperials.</p><p class="p1">“So… we’ve heard you met a <em>Jedi </em>in your most recent mission?”</p><p class="p1">Cara positively choked on her water, and felt the beverage burn in her throat and nose in a most ungraceful manner.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, Wolf,” Sash berated the man. “Next time, try not to go head-on with someone like Cara on stuff like that.”</p><p class="p1">Cara knew at once what Sash was talking about. “She’s right,” she said, trying not to bear down on Trapper too harshly. “That information was <em>confidential</em>. It was an initial report only meant for Captain Teva’s ears…” As she sputtered the last set of words, Cara suddenly grew in her doubts.</p><p class="p1">Trapper’s expression suddenly shifted to someone who had been caught red-handed in stealing a prized piece of pie, but offered explanation, nonetheless. “Captain Teva’s got his own reservations with whom to share certain information, Mar—I mean, Cara.” His joviality was both unsettling and oddly comforting. “If you hear anything from us which was supposedly just meant for him—well, you can say you can trust us all the same.”</p><p class="p1">“He’s our patrol leader with his full integrity still on him, as far as I know,” Jib’s soothing tone bridged Trapper’s rationale. It appeared as a half-jest, but Cara knew that these three respected Carson Teva without question. Cara partly let her fears rest.</p><p class="p1">“Well…” Cara held her breath, an unwanted bout of nerves edging their way in. “Yes. If I’ve to confirm <em>that</em> myself,” she added with a touch of snark, but she can see, especially with Sash’s expression—who Cara deemed the most somber among the three—that the woman appreciated this little friendly joust.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, <em>heavin’ Hutts</em>!” Trapper tried his best to contain his excitement, and Cara had to inwardly chuckle at Trapper’s method of doing so. “What was he like? I mean—like, we’ve heard all the <em>stories</em>, but you’ve seen one face to face! You all must’ve been… amazed, I guess?”</p><p class="p1"><em>Amazed?</em> Now that Trapper mentioned it, Cara rummaged for words. “He was only there for less than five minutes. I’m not even sure—everything happened so fast!” Suddenly, Cara <em>did</em> feel the amazement Trapper had been so sure about. “He just cut through the Dark Troopers like damn <em>butter</em>! Those… those <em>lightsabers</em> (she remembered what they were called) are just… they’re no kriffin’ joke! You know—all this time, we kept saying to each other, ‘May the Force be with you.’ An old parting expression. But—at that moment, we <em>felt</em> it.”</p><p class="p1">She didn’t even have to look straight in each of the pilots’ faces to know that they awaited her next words with bated breath.</p><p class="p1">“The Force was indeed with us. Even just for that five—oh, maybe ten minutes. You’re right, Wolf. It was—it was <em>amazing</em>…” Cara felt the need to stop herself from <em>gushing like a schoolgirl</em>, as the saying went. The Jedi were myths. They were part of a dying legend. But the stories had begun to actively surface once again. Cara felt a wonderful lightheartedness which had always evaded her; she was almost too scared to accept the feeling.</p><p class="p1">Then Cara arrived to the part where she knew these pilots would hopefully have a ready answer for.</p><p class="p1">“But—this Jedi—he flew to us in a kriffin’ <em>X-Wing</em>.” Her gaze seemed unfocused. She didn’t notice the heads of Trapper and his friends turn to each other, as if in astonished recognition of the subject in her words. “How in the world—<em>why in the world</em> would a Jedi own an X-Wing…?”</p><p class="p1">“That’s <em>him</em>,” came Sash’s piercing whisper towards Jib and Trapper, and Cara pretended not to notice in the first few moments.</p><p class="p1">Instead, Cara went on: “We thought we were all done for, with just a single Starfighter coming to our aid.” She shook her head, unable to contain her disbelief. “But the Jedi was there because he came for…”</p><p class="p1">Cara had to clamp the words in her throat. She wasn’t certain at all if she needed to confirm why the Jedi even bothered to come to their aid—<em>and it had been for Grogu</em>.</p><p class="p1">However, Cara thanked her stars once more when neither of them pressed her to continue, as though even they among themselves knew better than to push the matter forward.</p><p class="p1">It was Trapper once again who spoke. “Well, if that particular Jedi flew in with an X-Wing… I guess you’ve personally met none other than Commander Luke Skywalker.”</p><p class="p1">Cara felt her gut sink, at loss of not being able to place the name, even as she knew that she expected herself to know most of the names of New Republic  officers, past and current. She dumbly but subtly shook her head. “Sorry… no, not familiar.” Oh, how <em>foolish</em> she felt at that very minute.</p><p class="p1">Jib seemed to sense her predicament. “His rank comes from being one of Rogue Squadron’s leaders,” he offered. “Him and Commander Wedge Antilles. One native to Corellia, and Skywalker himself from Tatooine. Who would’ve thought? In fact, not a lot know about it. Commander Skywalker isn’t so much a public person. His reputation precedes him as an exemplary Rebel pilot. Small wonders, but those come with an even bigger bite.”</p><p class="p1">Cara absently nodded her head. <em>Tatooine?</em> Din had been there a couple of times. How come he had received no word or peep from anyone on that desert planet?</p><p class="p1">Then something at the back of her memory eased to the surface: once, the Rebels had tried to motivate the populace with what the Empire called “filthy, hard-sell paraphernalia,” and Cara had seen these lined on the walls of cities she found herself wandering in—in her silent, raging grief, after she had learned about the complete and utter pulverization of Alderaan. Those were posters of two X-Wings alongside the faded faces of their respective pilots, both handsome young men, but Cara, at the time, had thought little of it. The fight against the Empire needed heroes; all that Cara heard in her head was: <em>too late, it’s all too late</em>.</p><p class="p1">A flashy scrawl of the pilots’ callsigns and a simple abbreviation of their great deeds had been written on those posters. <em>The extraordinary courage of our best Rebel pilots, Red Two and Red Five of the Starfighter Corps, has successfully destroyed the Death Star and paved our way to freedom!</em> <em>We are the Rebel Alliance!</em>—or some sort of heart-lifting message. It just so happened that the two young pilots were the only survivors of their squadron on that very mission.</p><p class="p1">“Is he…” Cara whispered in askance, more to herself than to her table peers. “Is his callsign<em> Red Five</em>?”</p><p class="p1">Trapper immediately proffered his enthusiasm. “The one and only,” he replied. “Although, we understand why he’d decided to keep his whole Jedi identity pretty hush-hush. It ain’t for us to trumpet out. Better err on the side of caution. But!” Trapper ran a hand through his growing stubble, ambling on with unwavering cheer. “At least we can say that the legends are kinda true! Jedi fall miraculously from the sky when you need ‘em.”</p><p class="p1">Jib chuckled faintly, and Sash cast her eyes downward and smiled. Cara drained her drink, uncertain why such information had to be withheld—but everything had its reason.</p><p class="p1">After a warm parting of their small assembly which seemed to last for many hours, Cara made her way out of the mess hall, grabbing a nutrient bar on the way. She felt the stumble in her steps and walked aimlessly down many of the ship’s corridors for a good fifteen minutes. The faint beeping of her comlink called her attention amidst the hum of hyperspace travel.</p><p class="p1">“What is it?” Cara barked into the comlink, suddenly forgetting communications protocol.</p><p class="p1">A voice that seemed to have come out of a tin can replied, “Marshal Dune, you have a message from HQ. Please report to the bridge.”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be right there.” Cara sped through, heart racing ominously, to her destination.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Cara did not expect the hologram of General Crix Madine floating at the center of the bridge’s comms console. She had been briefed earlier that the Sector Ranger Special Enforcement would be working closely with the New Republic Special Forces in some particularly substantial missions, and the capture of Moff Gideon seemed to be one of them—now that Cara was in the same room with the blue-hazed semblance of the general.</p><p class="p1">Among the few present apart from herself were Captain Carson Teva (naturally, Cara thought; he had been the one who vouched for her all the way up to New Republic High Command. He apparently had <em>some</em> influence) and two Sector Rangers who had been assigned to the Hapes System: a human male named Olis Beind, and a male Nautolan named Bronn Kirji. The former had a puzzling appearance of a man no older than forty, but possessed a full head of silver hair tied in a short ponytail, while the latter had the typical but awe-inspiring look of most Nautolans with their many-tailed heads, grey-green skin and dark, huge nebulous eyes.</p><p class="p1">Without further ado, General Madine spouted in his full, commanding tone: “How is our prisoner? Who guards the fiend while we’re all here?”</p><p class="p1">“Six highly-trained agents from Special Enforcement, General,” Cara began, when Teva gave her the signal to talk freely. Her straightened her posture, falling back into a familiar attentive position. Her soldier days suddenly cascaded into her mannerisms, but the newness of being in her position still painfully showed.</p><p class="p1">General Madine’s eyes were fixed on the sole four occupants of the room, standing before his hologram in a semi-circle. “Any new information?”</p><p class="p1">It was Olis who grumbled out his answer. “Nothing that we already know. This man’s dangerous and for good reason. He’s been trying to get under our skins for the past couple of days… that is, when he’s not unconscious.”</p><p class="p1">Something about that statement didn’t sit well with Cara, and she lightly turned her gaze towards the human ranger.</p><p class="p1">General Madine’s face remained impassive, but his voice betrayed his frustration. “We had wanted Gideon <em>alive</em> for a reason, Marshal Beind. Any methods too extreme may be frowned upon by the rest of High Command.”</p><p class="p1">Olis Beind reddened at the ears, and attempted to choke out an answer, when his partner, Bronn, in a surprisingly warm and almost human voice, stepped to his aid. “I’m afraid he’s been an extremely tough nut to crack, General. The man cares so damn little about his own life. Insisted any information he had locked deep within his brain would die with him. <em>And </em>he acted like it.”</p><p class="p1">“If I may, General,” Cara interjected, and Bronn turned to her with a nod of understanding. The Nautolan seemed the more sensible one. “Gideon had openly tried to take his own life once captured in his cruiser, as stated in my initial report. This is a matter of grave concern. This could mean that any information which he had planned to keep to himself must have already been entrusted to someone—or maybe, a <em>bunch</em> of someones—else, and him staying alive isn’t the crux of the mission, as far as the Imperial Remnant is concerned.”</p><p class="p1">“Or perhaps,” Bronn concluded, and he had respectfully taken a cue from Cara, “the prisoner already found his mission completed, in a way, and he no longer found any use of himself, or for himself—as odd as it sounds. His death had already been falsified the first time. A forged account of his execution has been unearthed by Marshal Dune…”</p><p class="p1">Cara nodded, and her heart began to pound. This Special Enforcement business seemed more thorough than she thought, and this mission in its own felt like lodestone in her bones.</p><p class="p1">General Madine’s expression remained unfazed. “That is why we need more information. It’s unfortunate to admit that the New Republic had fallen short with the fact that Gideon’s execution report had all been a lie. That may have been mostly why we had been infiltrated by Imperial agents—to falsify records. All agents have been captured, all appehended, but I must say that they had remained stalwart with Gideon in particular. His death had been genuine, they swore.”</p><p class="p1">“But who takes stock on what any Imp swears by, anyway?” Olis irately remarked with a robust sigh. Cara and Teva exchanged dour glances. Bronn’s shoulders drooped, and the long flaps on his head began to twist and wriggle in slight aggravation.</p><p class="p1">“There could be many more out there, more Imperial officers who had been reported dead or executed, killed in action, and so on… but with forged reports. Right under our damn noses,” Teva hissed between his teeth.</p><p class="p1">The whistling purr of hyperspace kept their ears company until Madine broke the wallowing gloom.</p><p class="p1">“I had hoped myself that we would not reach any extremes, but if it <em>must</em> be done, so be it.” The general’s troubled yet mysterious tone weasled its way to Cara’s attention. She pointedly gave Teva a harsh look—was she being left out in the dark about something? However, Teva’s gaze turned grim, and visibly took no offense with Cara’s change of mood.</p><p class="p1">However, General Madine’s words appeared to specifically address Olis and Bronn, as though word had already been sent to them, and they only need to finally implement it. “Yes, sir,” both man and Nautolon acknowledged, almost tenuously, as if they themselves didn’t believe those.. <em>extremes, </em>which the general had been forced a hand to issue out.</p><p class="p1">“I trust your judgment,” came General Madine’s parting words, before a solemn, “May the Force be with you.”</p><p class="p1">And his hologram dissolved in a burst of static.</p><p class="p1">Cara, for all her control in keeping level-headed, sought that moment to confront Olis and Bronn, much to Teva’s frustration, as though he were trying to wring in a child throwing a tantrum. “What was <em>that</em> about? What did the general mean about extremes? What aren’t you telling me…?”</p><p class="p1">“Marshal Dune,” Teva hummed a suppressed warning.</p><p class="p1">Olis looked like a man beleagered for a crime he did not commit, but it was Bronn who was the apparent diplomat between the two.</p><p class="p1">“Marshal Dune, if you must know, even Marshal Beind and I hadn’t believed that it would come to this. But, as you know, we will be arriving at the Hapes Cluster within any minute now, where the Maires system is located.”</p><p class="p1">Cara ceased all thought upon the mention of the system name. Her blood turned cold, and her breath felt like ice in her lungs. She should have known. Olis and Bronn were the Sector Rangers of the Innner Rim comprising those systems, after all. The Maires system visibly meant <em>one thing</em>, as far as she could deduce.</p><p class="p1">She was only grateful in a warped sort of way that she would not be on the receiving end of such extremes.</p><p class="p1"><em>How unfortunate for Gideon</em>—and even Cara thought she would never find herself forming such a loathsome sentiment.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Three among the six Special Enforcement agents were standing guard at Gideon’s holding cell when Cara made her way towards that part of the ship. She had to painstakingly pull out every muscle of legitimate identification she possessed, from scans to specialized keys in order to reach this very spot where the agents firmly returned her salute.</p><p class="p1">Her trained gaze quickly inspected the several strategically-positioned security cameras which recorded their every move. The guards and the prisoner were all under watchful eyes, and now that she was here, she would not be spared by any tight scrutiny.</p><p class="p1">“Orders to check on Inmate 71399,” she curtly announced, and flashed the very order issued by General Madine himself on her datapad, which the general quickly transmitted to her through a personalized and meticulously <em>secure</em> number.</p><p class="p1">After a full minute’s wait to set all codes needed to open the cell, the agents let her in without as much as a word.</p><p class="p1">The sight that met her felt like an unpleasant blow to her gut, which Cara wished she immediately regretted admitting to.</p><p class="p1">Gideon was flat on his side, his shackled hands twisted behind his back in an obviously painful manner, considering his position. The man was breathing, Cara noted, but she wondered if he was conscious.</p><p class="p1">“Lift him up,” Cara ordered one among the three agents in the holding cell. The agents were all covered from head to toe, with only their eyes clearly visible in their helmets, which they religiously wore during their shifts. She had no reason to suspect these agents. She had already met each one in person as Teva introduced them to her upon embarkation.</p><p class="p1">“Aye, Marshal,” acknowledge one whose name she recalled was simply <em>Atlas</em>. All agents were of intimidating height and size, and Atlas was no different. With a huge, paw-like gloved hand, the agent bodily lifted Gideon off the once-pristine floor.</p><p class="p1">Cara compelled herself not to look away.</p><p class="p1">Gideon’s face was a <em>horrid </em>mess. One eye was swollen shut and bleeding; his nose seemed broken and his lip was split, along with various small bruises peppered on his ashen face. Gideon had long been stripped of his Imperial garb and wore the dull orange shift of a New Republic detainee. The collar was soaked in sweat and smeared with traces of blood.</p><p class="p1">But the man was conscious—the glint of his good eye was unmistakable under the scathingly bright, unrelenting lights of the cell.</p><p class="p1">Gideon struggled to speak, but his tone was undeniably filled with derisive contempt. “Carasynthia Dune,” he muttered, almost cheerfully, and Cara fought hard not to contribute her own blow to the man’s already battered form.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t you <em>dare </em>ever address me as such again,” she snarled through clenched teeth.</p><p class="p1">This fell on deaf ears. Gideon attempted a strained, piteous laugh. “<em>Carasynthia</em>… Those New Republic stripes look good on you. Have you officially slaughtered any of the Remnant wearing those wonderful stripes?”</p><p class="p1">Atlas gave him one fierce shake, as though in warning. Gideon bent along with the shake like a broken doll—exaggeratingly, maddeningly so, and Cara wondered if Gideon was deliberate with this act. The man may have very well excelled in theater as he had in Imperial academics.</p><p class="p1">Cara once more reeled in the temptation to land a punch on the prisoner’s sneer. She hid her own struggle to take in deep breaths before glancing at her datapad. She had been specifically tasked to go over a cross-examination with the information handed to them—and forced out of—Doctor Pershing. It had been far more easier apprehending the scientist, who had been a very unwilling candidate to the Remnant’s plans in the first place.</p><p class="p1">“Gideon,” Cara addressed the man, in quivering repulsion, but she needed to manage this as professionally as she can. “You have ordered a bounty on an infant for the sole purpose of experimentation upon its turnover, the main reason being the infant as a rich carrier of what Doctor Pershing calls Midi-chlorian microorganisms, located in the blood. The infant was a rare commodity—” Cara winced at the word.<em> Commodity?</em> Grogu, <em>sweet Grogu</em>, had been considered nothing more than a tool.“—and his acquisition was paramount at all cost.”</p><p class="p1">Gideon scoffed. “That <em>damned </em>Pershing.”</p><p class="p1">Cara eyed him fitfully, but continued before the prisoner could utter another word. “Doctor Pershing was brought to the Project against his will. He reported that all other qualified colleagues who had worked in Kaminoan laboratories who refused to be part of the said Project were tortured, and then killed, under your direct orders.”</p><p class="p1">Gideon looked suddenly wistful—to Cara’s distaste—as though he were recalling a faraway dream. “If they only knew better,” was all the man said. His expression slowly turned grim to the point of blankness.</p><p class="p1">Cara’s lip began to tremble when she read the next few statements. “Pershing had been very clear that you were conducting simultaneous experiments in two different labs, one of which was recently discovered and shut down by Nevarroan government. The first was Midi-chlorian transfusion to existing strand-casts… and the other, is… cloning, in a lab located close to the Esstran sector—“ Cara felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. “—which had been consequently and <em>immediately</em> shut down by the New Republic Rangers of that sector.” Cara couldn’t imagine such unimaginable strength of will these rangers possessed to carry such a mission. If Cara knew her history, the Esstran sector was the birthplace of the Sith. Her stomach began to hurl, but she held her ground.</p><p class="p1">She then raised her eyes, and noted that Gideon looked faint and very tired. His lips struggled to form a word.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, Marshal,” said Atlas nonchalantly. “He’s being dramatic again. Don’t fall for it.”</p><p class="p1">Cara patiently held a hand up to the agent to indicate that she wanted to hear what Gideon had to say in spite of his theatrics, and Atlas feigned a shrug but obliged.</p><p class="p1">“W-water,” Gideon whispered, his expression folding into an awful, pitiful mask. “I’m <em>parched</em>, Marshal Dune… haven’t had a drink for many hours…”</p><p class="p1">That was Cara’s last straw for this session. She was quickly losing her cool, and any untoward actions on her behalf could be immediately held against her, and she hasn’t even been close to a month in her rank as Sector Ranger. Teva would foam in the mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Give Inmate 71399 some <em>kriffing</em> water,” she managed to growl out in mounting irritation, and she walked out of the cell as quickly as she could while she still minded her tact and composure.</p><p class="p1">But as she had tried to exit the holding area of the ship in its entirety, another sight beheld her which further made the world around her spin.</p><p class="p1">Thankfully, Bronn was there to catch her as she tottered forward, while at the corner of her eye, she glimpsed at Olis who wore a surprisingly worried look on his seemingly ageless face.</p><p class="p1">Before her was the <em>gigantic</em>, looming form of a creature known to inhabit the Maires system—and Cara had already known of this, but why did she want to scream and hurtle her way out of this mission? Yet she knew she couldn’t. She just<em> couldn’t</em>. She has to be part of this. For Din’s sake. For Grogu’s sake.</p><p class="p1">The towering, tentacled creature was somehow courteous and stepped back in an orderly slither, almost in a sorry manner, and regarded her with shockingly compassionate eyes. However, Cara paid little heed to the Mairan’s overall concerned countenance.</p><p class="p1">It had recently come to Cara’s awareness, in hushed, stately talks between Teva and General Madine, that the Mairans had another name which had been stuff of a Rebel shock trooper’s nightmares:</p><p class="p1">
  <em>The Mind Flayer.</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*nervous laughter* Yeeeepppp. Anyway, as you may already know (fun fact), Trapper Wolf, Jib Dodger, and Sash Ketter are the X-wing pilot characters played by Dave Filoni himself, and Rick Famuyiwa, and Deborah Chow. All directors of Mando episodes. I must have been so fun for these three to play their part. :D Captain Carson Teva and General Crix Madine are both canon. The Mairan is the creature in “Rogue One” which did a number on Bodhi Rook’s mind (aka Bor Gullet). Now everything I’d have in this fic are a mix of canon, legends, and headcanon stuff plenty enough to fill a Super Star Destoyer. LOLLL. I send this off with hugs and advanced gratitude for kudos and comments! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. A Dawn of Many Nights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Flashback chapter. Bo-Katan revisits a turning point of Death Watch when the first faction split, led by a Vizsla who was not Pre.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hallo everyone! So sorry for this delayed update! Spring allergies got my pathetic arse bad. *cries* Could hardly keep my eyes open at a time without drowning in meds. Gah. They’re not as bad now so here I am. xD Rest assured I’ll update whenever I can. I’ve got some big plans for this baby right here. Yes, I also mean Grogu. :P So without further ado—</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 11: A Dawn of Many Nights</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <em>The Moon of Concordia, 19 BBY </em>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">They had called it the Great Split.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan disdainfully thought it was a peculiar and unoriginal name to label a spat between two brothers, but the rest of Death Watch—those who had remained after that fateful day—had no other profound name for it. The ranks slowly but surely revealed their restlessness in the days that had led to it.</p><p class="p3">The fitful echelons among Death Watch had all gathered at the heart of their Concordian base, concealed behind a tent of thick duraweave layers so the only sounds heard were the voices within, blocking out commotion from the outside. Inside was as dark as a Mudhorn’s cave, lit only by the tepid glow of halogen lamps.</p><p class="p3">Pre Vizsla was there. He was the first to shed his helmet off as the gathering began, and Bo-Katan remembered his frighteningly grim face, eyes ablaze with keen displeasure and his jaw set as though he were wrangling himself as best as he could from unleashing a devastating outburst.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan herself was there, and when Pre took his helmet off, so did she, as well as the rest of the Death Watch lieutenants who had assembled by Pre’s side: a round table where they had stood and seated themselves in a semi-circle.</p><p class="p3">On the other half of that circle, as it appeared, sat a young man named Lir Vizsla, and to his right was his newly-appointed second-in-command, Raald Movan. Lir had not immediately taken his helmet off, biding his time and letting long moments pass after Pre initially shed his. Meetings like these entailed the courtesy of a leader to take his helmet off before everyone else followed suit. In this case with Lir, it was, for Bo-Katan and all those present, a silent yet open act of defiance.</p><p class="p3">Raald and the rest of their faction immediately had taken off their helmets soon after Lir did. This was their way of expressing that their respect for Lir surpassed those of all other authority’s present in that officers’ tent.</p><p class="p3">Their days were numbered, in a measurable sense of the phrase.</p><p class="p3">All of Concordia recently received word that all of Death Watch had been sentenced to further exile by the Sundari government on Mandalore, after a recent attempt to sabotage the Duchess Satine’s endeavors to keep the peace and withhold an impending Republic invasion should things go awry. It was also revealed that Pre had been masquerading as the dutiful Concordian governor while maintaining secrecy of his operations as the leader of Death Watch, who were branded as terrorists among polite society.</p><p class="p3">It was bedlam for the past week. But this day appeared to have sealed a series of misfortunes that had befallen upon Death Watch one after another.</p><p class="p3">They were to pack up and leave their Concordian stronghold, effective at once. Authorities were closing in on them, and the hellish nuisance that was the Republic had their eyes on Death Watch activities as well, even as they did not actively pursue them. It was once again a chance to lay low until the tides have turned to their favor, should that time ever come.</p><p class="p3">However, Lir Vizsla and his merry band had picked this already tumultuous period to declare their sore dissatisfaction towards Death Watch’s mishandling. There were too much theatrics that beat around the bush. The once honorable pact of Death Watch to expose the weakness of New Mandalore without resorting to more lives lost among their people had been desecrated with Pre’s and Bo-Katan’s open desire to expel the Duchess Satine both of rule and of her very life. Her Protectors have diminished, more so in greater numbers than the casualties among Death Watch.</p><p class="p3">Death Watch was known to be extreme, but as Lir finally revealed, this had never been the initial plan. Pre compounded an obsession to instill fear among those he sought to conquer. Lir found little use for fear if they were to gain the trust of a people with a diluted and scattered resolve to even bring the <em>Resol’nare</em> back to the Mandalorian consciousness. Pre despised weakness and championed strength even in its most cruel forms. Lir held his full cooperation back whenever Pre would give orders of staged rescues on the very villages which they had pillaged and plundered themselves.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan had believed that Lir was a thorn on Pre’s side. She knew how differences between siblings can escalate into something more than mere estrangement. Oh, she knew <em>enough</em> to completely set aside duty towards blood-family, so her duty towards the old, majestic Mandalorian ways could flourish. She had wanted her own sister out of the picture. She never recalled how hate had crept into her heart in the first place, or how she had turned cold overtime, so any mention of Satine no longer garnered any affection.</p><p class="p3">However, she and Satine were true siblings in a sense that they were birthed from the same womb. Lir was a foundling, and was a full seventeen years younger than Pre. Lir was Pre’s source of frustration as the young man showed little interest in power and influence—and yet here he was, with a like-minded following of his own, ready to tear themselves away. Pre had grappled with Lir in conversations which always turned into arguments with Lir the first to leave the scene. Lir was privileged. House Vizsla was one of nobility, and Lir’s lack of enthusiasm to see Pre eye to eye in many things—save for the restoration of Mandalorian tradition—grated at the older man.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan was much younger in her twenties, while Lir and Raald had reached their early thirties. They were both immensely intelligent and highly skilled, even as Raald held four ranks higher than Lir and was two years younger. She saw how Lir refused to climb to a status which would eventually blind him out of his modesty. How she <em>detested</em> that sort of modesty. At least Raald was the charismatic one, effectively more handsome and more accommodating, and welcomed the grievances of many soldiers. Countless times he had to relay messages to Lir himself as a number of Death Watch members saw Lir too far distanced to communicate with, and Raald happened to be there. It was a funny arrangement, as it was not customary for a higher-ranking officer to carry out favors for a lower-ranking one. Lir simply had the virtue and advantage of being a Vizsla.</p><p class="p3">Perhaps, then, what may have weighed down on Pre the most was the genuine closeness of brothers Lir and Raald shared with each other. Pre would never admit it, even as Bo-Katan saw through the man’s unperturbed countenance. Lir had adamantly refused to follow in Pre’s foosteps, yet he embraced all of Raald’s thoughts and ideas. Raald, the one who listened, the one who carried through promises without tarnishing his word.</p><p class="p3">Eventually, like water drops falling upon a stone, a groove was created deep enough—a metaphor of how Lir’s sporadic yet heartfelt preaching of his own ideals inched their way into the willing minds of Raald and the others.</p><p class="p3">Now, they were short days away from being evicted from Death Watch’s birthplace, and here they were—Pre, Bo-Katan, and those loyal to them against Lir, Raald, and twenty-four of their most capable Death Watch warriors who shared the same disillusionment, disappointment, and—dare Bo-Katan assume it—resentment.</p><p class="p3">Fair enough. She had grown to resent them as much as Pre did, fueled by the man’s own encouragement. Pre’s pride was stricken by a nasty blow.</p><p class="p3">“We’re defecting from Death Watch,” was Lir’s terse declaration. “We no longer wish to associate ourselves with how eroded its values have become.”</p><p class="p3">Pre had clenched his teeth, and Bo-Katan noted how the man trembled as he mustered all the self-control he could. “How dare you.” Pre’s tone was scathing. <em>“</em>How <em>dare </em>you<em>.”</em></p><p class="p3">Raald, unmoved, was next to speak his mind. “We’ve seen how facades and pretense have largely carved a foothold on this once honorable organization—if we had even begun at such a point. We are soldiers and fighters. Not <em>actors</em>, and definitely not terrorists, as this galaxy had been swayed to believe.”</p><p class="p3">Pre held up an accusatory finger at each of the twenty-six who were about to sunder themselves from his leadership forever. “We were to bring back Mandalore to our cause by all means possible. I sacrificed my stable position of governance and endured the loathsome rubbing of elbows with these pacifist fools long enough to get us what we needed to bring an entire government down. We just needed the right time with the right conditions. Would you ever take to space had you known beforehand that the hyperspace lanes were broken and in useless clutter?”</p><p class="p3">Lir did not as much bat an eye. His gaze was full and strong upon his eldest brother—and only so to hold on to their late parents’ legacy of his adoption for as long as they both could. “Say what you want, Pre. You only hear yourself. You’ve only been hearing yourself as I have tried to reason out with you for as long as I can remember being in Death Watch—perhaps, even as far back as when I was but a small child. You had always sought your own counsel and only expected others to echo it.”</p><p class="p3">Pre was turning livid, and his breath turned uneven; his voice was now an almost feral growl. “Reason out? To me? My dear little brother, I've listened to all what you had to say. They are still but words of a naive child. Have you ever learned anything as you grew to adulthood? Our battles were <em>never</em> fair. The galaxy had never been sparing, and <em>never</em> will it ever be kind. It had always been up to us, to rely on our own hands and decide what to do with these mishaps. When circumstances spit at us, we spit back tenfold!”</p><p class="p3">Lir had looked a little crestfallen, as though a painful memory had returned for a split second. His obdurate expression returned nearly the moment his face softened. “When have you become so <em>damnably</em> angry?” His voice almost trailed off. “You’re so blinded by anger that sound judgment and clear mind have completely left you on numerous occasions. The broken alliance with the Confederacy, the taking of many innocent lives and the burning of their villages, the complete disregard of a dozen honor codes which separated true Mandalorians from mere savages… I can name <em>more</em>, Pre, but I’m tired—as the rest of us are. We’re <em>done</em> with this charade.”</p><p class="p3">As though to brandish a tone of finality, Lir tore off his left pauldron whereupon his rank had been painted on—the two-arrowed symbol against a golden diamond of a <em>sol’yc ver’alor, </em>First Lieutenant—and flung it to the center of the table, far from his reach but very much within Pre’s and Bo-Katan’s line of sight, against the hovering gloom of the atmosphere and dull lamplight.</p><p class="p3">Lir stood up and stepped back to make way for Raald, who wordlessly did the same: tore his left pauldron where his rank—<em>ver’alor al’verde</em>, Lieutenant Commander—was painted on. Raald’s defection was a great loss as he was a mere promotion away of becoming a<em>l’verde</em>, Commander, one capable of leading thousands of soldiers on a day of battle, in contrast to Lir’s station that had the authority to lead but a handful of troops. To Death Watch’s final day, that loss had been felt, as Raald had so much in him to inspire loyalty that could have rivaled Gar Saxon’s towards Maul.</p><p class="p3">One by one, all twenty-six defectors piled their pauldrons of rank and duty upon the table. The only sound that splintered the weighted silence was the clanging of beskar on mixed steel—maybe the sound of breathing, and even of angrily beating hearts. Pragmatically, they could have simply painted their pauldrons afresh, but the symbolic importance of this action had spoken louder than words, and deafeningly so.</p><p class="p3">And one by one, they all filed out of the tent, until Lir and Raald were those that remained, bearing upon all those present the impression that in the heat of battle, they will be the first to arrive and the last to leave, should they survive through the onslaught.</p><p class="p3">It was the first time Bo-Katan witnessed a Pre who had lost all composure. The man gave out a roar and swept all of the shed pauldrons back across the table where Lir and Raald stood with irritating solemnity.</p><p class="p3">“Take your <em>accursed</em> pauldrons back. Take all of them back, and to HELL with you!” It took all of Pre’s self-restraint from taking his blaster out and holding the point close to the two men’s faces with all intention of shooting them down. His movements nearly betrayed him, and Lir’s and Raald’s bodies grew taut, anticipating anything untoward from the enraged Death Watch commander-in-chief.</p><p class="p3">Lir’s expression was that of mixed sadness and shock, while Raald’s was of confusion and shock. Pre had been more than willing to kill his own brother and take down a well-respected officer, but the tension had been so thick that both actions were too unwise.</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan had known that Pre held himself back not out of sentiment.</p><p class="p3">They both knew that Lir and Raald would fight back, and would have spelled greater disaster for all those still within the tent, and soon for the entirety of Death Watch. It would be too great a waste for the sake of twenty-six disloyal wretches.</p><p class="p3">The contained sadness in Lir’s eyes finally made itself known with the words that followed. “The ancient weapon you hold,” he whispered. They all knew what Lir meant, and it was clipped safely and religiously upon Pre’s jetpack. “Do you even fathom its <em>power</em> at all?”</p><p class="p3">Without further farewell, Lir and Raald marched out of the tent. Lir had not once looked back. There was a hint of grief in Raald’s eyes which dissipated quickly—a small glimpse of it which Bo-Katan caught even in the semi-darkness.</p><p class="p3">She found herself seething as well, and she fiercely rebuked herself inwardly for not coming to Pre’s defense. Her very words would have cut through them like a knife through butter, but Pre had ordered her beforehand to hold her tongue. He was to do all the talking. She and the others, if need be, would then do all the shooting should it arrive to that. But as Pre had it, even that moment never came.</p><p class="p3">Since that day, she had heard of Lir, Raald, and the rest of the defectors only <em>once </em>before they disappeared from all literal and figurative radars for good. They had fulfilled their last and transitional mission in a place called Aq Vetina, where they saved an entire village from utter devastation against vindictive Separatist forces. It was the very last time, as well, when they bore the insignia of House Vizsla which had become synonymous to Death Watch—the shriek-hawk, and had turned a new page in their lives by joining one of the most fundamentalist sects of Mandalorians in recent history—</p><p class="p3">
  <em>The Children of the Watch.</em>
</p><p class="p3">Bo-Katan had never believed then that she would be breaking away from Death Watch herself not long afterwards, but under more different circumstances. Maul had seized his victory over the Darksaber and divided the loyalties among those who served the Mandalorian throne. Bo-Katan formed the Nite Owls, while the rest of Death Watch were transformed into the Shadow Collective super commandos under Gar Saxon and Rook Kast.</p><p class="p3">Her sister had not even left the world long enough for the glass palace of Sundari to turn cold before a new usurper after Pre had taken the reigns. Pre had not even as much warmed the seat of the throne before his own severed head rolled across the palace floors.</p><p class="p3">Such was the curse of the Darksaber, and perhaps the curse of all Mandalore.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m thinking of making my chapters more “digestible” chunks again (yum), hence this shorter chapter. Please let me know if this arrangement suits ya’ll better. :D</p><p>In my headcanon, Raald was the one who saved Din, while Lir was the one who signaled Raald to take off with Din during the season 1, episode 8 flashback. It’s just so interesting that the show-runners strongly hinted that Din’s saviors were Death Watch Mandalorians (armor colors and pauldron signet). It was begging for a backstory so of course I caved in! Wahoo. Yessir, another OC to throw in an already overflowing bowl of OCs. Um… sorry not sorry? xD Also, I admit, I’m not exactly sure of Bo-Katan’s age during 19 BBY. Some say she’s in her twenties, some thirties. She’s supposedly in her fifties during the Mandoverse timeline. But that girrlll better be droppin her skincare routine coz she looks smokin’ for fifty. Lol.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. A Battle From Within</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din recalls a significant time when his adoptive father, Raald, took the role of raising him very seriously. (Another flashback chapter, but this will be the last one after a while!)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ve decided to let you good folk know that my fic would gradually take a darker turn, although ratings won’t change—unless I get feedback that it needs to. :) TW if necessary will be placed at the beginning of specific chapters. I’ve also added a new tag that the fic would eventually diverge from canon (if it hasn’t already! xD). As I’ve mentioned in a comment, sometimes stories have a way of writing themselves, and while I’ve outlined this one so far, stuff can still somehow change. Lols. Those who do NaNoWriMo would be familiar with the term “plotter” and “pantser.” I kinda do both. Ehehe. Enough of the babble and on we go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><b><em>TW:</em></b> Implied ptsd. Brief, intense violence among kids.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 12: A Battle From Within</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Din remembered when Paz was first brought into the Mandalorian fold.</p><p class="p1">It had only been four months since Din himself was taken in by the Tribe, after being rescued by a Mandalorian named Raald Movan. Raald bore an expressively pleasant voice, as though he were meant to articulate compelling speeches. Din had yet to see the man’s face. He had learned earlier on that these were warriors who never took their helmets off in front of others, and only when by themselves or in privacy among close family members.</p><p class="p1">Raald was kind, still somewhat detached, but possessed enough warmth to comfort Din in his time of grief. Raald spoke to the child about death and the souls and the stars, and how his birth parents, in their noble and selfless efforts in saving his life, had joined the million twinkling suns above. They were treasures who will forever watch over him, just as the rest of those who left the world before them. It was a belief famous among Mandalorians. It was first of the many Din had quickly espoused. He relished the thought of souls living on in another way, unseen, but definitely present—<em>somewhere</em> beyond.</p><p class="p1">Din knew that Raald <em>knew</em> that he cried nearly every night for weeks following his rescue. It was a restrained, quiet sobbing which Din had wished to keep to himself, and Raald never bothered him about it as Din lay in the dark before falling into fitful sleep. But in the morning, the Mandalorian would patiently sit with him at breakfast, even as he kept his helmet on and did not share meals with the boy yet. He had only said that he’d already eaten, long before Din had awoken as soon as the sun rose.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be gone for a few days” were Raald’s words one morning.</p><p class="p1">Din looked up at him with his round and soulful dark eyes, but said nothing. He never really felt inclined to talk at all, not when he and the older man had begun to reach some level of silent understanding.</p><p class="p1">“The clan elders will look after you in the meantime. It’s just a short mission, buddy. You have everything you need here while I’m away.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded, still wordlessly.</p><p class="p1">Raald chuckled. In the pale light of morning, Raald’s small fit of fond laughter eased the gloom.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Haa’taylir gar nusuji, ad’ika</em>,” said the man softly as he rose from the table, gently ruffled Din’s hair, lifted a small sack of provisions over a shoulder and stepped out of their stone hut. Raald’s thready shadow filled the doorway for a moment before it diminished, as it joined a squad of other shadows.</p><p class="p1">Din hadn’t understood the words then, or the language even, which he knew was the Mandalorian native tongue. As Raald taught him Mando’a through the weeks, months, years—Din eventually knew that it meant, <em>I’ll see you soon, my little one.</em></p><p class="p1">Din had been one of the few children who lived with the Tribe at the time. He was ten years old, and all the other boys and girls were either too young (around five or six), or “too old”—in their teens, around sixteen or seventeen. Din, however, found solace in being the only one among his age group.</p><p class="p1">That arrangement changed, however, when Raald and his squad of Mandalorians returned from their so-called mission. Din knew one of them was Lir, who Raald introduced to Din as someone like a brother to him. Lir had a stony voice and an even stonier demeanor. Lir barely turned his head or moved his body, so with full armor and helmet on, Lir would seem very statue-like with not much effort.</p><p class="p1">Din had noticed at once that Lir was cradling the body of a wounded young boy. Din had run to Raald as soon as the man was in sight, and Raald slowly knelt before Din so his visor was at Din’s eye level. It was Raald’s way of letting Din know that he was willing to talk and willing to listen, if Din endeavored to do the same towards him.</p><p class="p1">Raald’s helmet subtly followed Din’s line of attention, which was on the small body Lir carried. The other Mandalorian then disappeared behind the huge canopy of a medical tent.</p><p class="p1">“Will he be all right?” It was Din’s first words after a long while. He was facing Raald again.</p><p class="p1">Raald nodded. “Lir will see to it, ad’ika.”</p><p class="p1">Din fumbled with more to say. “Did you rescue him, too?”</p><p class="p1">Raald sighed.</p><p class="p1">The man’s voice was barely audible. “Yes. From a slave cartel transport.”</p><p class="p1">“Where are his parents?” Din pushed further.</p><p class="p1">Raald kept his somber volume. “They’re… dead, Din.”</p><p class="p1">“So he’s an orphan? Like me?”</p><p class="p1">Raald had taken a long moment to look at Din through the inky black of his visor.</p><p class="p1">“I suppose,” said the man. Din at that moment didn’t understand why Raald didn’t reply with a simple <em>yes</em> or a <em>no. </em>He had not yet been aware of Raald’s intentions to fully adopt him. That would be some more months down the line, but as it was, Raald was warming up to him more and more—still suppressed, but the fondness was considerably growing stronger.</p><p class="p1">Din remained alone and played by himself in the sandy creeks, catching bugs and climbing trees. That was for the next few days or so. Raald would then join him in steady intervals as the man began to teach the fundamentals of their warrior ways to Din. These were hours-long exercises on body movements and footwork. Otherwise, Din was mostly by his lonesome when Raald was off in conference with other Mandalorians.</p><p class="p1">One afternoon, as Din attempted to climb one of the higher trees by the creek, he caught sight of Raald, who was then accompanied by Lir, and Din squinted—the young boy which Lir had brought into the settlement days before was with them.</p><p class="p1">When Raald, Lir, and the boy were at the foot of the tree Din had successfully scaled a good height with, Raald’s helmeted head tipped upwards and in his full, sonorous voice, called out to Din.</p><p class="p1">“Ad’ika, come down from there.”</p><p class="p1">Din obeyed.</p><p class="p1">That was Din’s first introduction to Paz. The other child was a little taller and stouter. Paz had still looked quite sickly, but Din noted the boy’s hair with color of spun gold, so pale that it was almost white. They held a curl so similar to how Din’s own hair had begun to behave. Paz’s eyes were the palest Din had ever seen on a <em>human.</em> He wasn’t sure if they were grey, or blue, or even green. The colors seemed to change all the time.</p><p class="p1">There was an obstinate, bull-headed kind of air which surrounded Paz. The iciness of Paz’s ashy cerulean eyes glared at Din, but Din, knowing that he and Paz now shared the same predicament, rescued from dire circumstances and now fatherless and motherless, decided not to think too much about the other boy’s dourness. The only trace of the boy’s injuries were the bandages that peeked out of his rough-spun tunic.</p><p class="p1">“Hello,” Din finally greeted Paz, after a small signal of coaxing from Raald.</p><p class="p1">Paz continued to glare at Din.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Paz</em>,” Lir’s steel-tipped voice called to the boy, sounding very much like admonishment.</p><p class="p1">“Hello,” the pale-haired boy suddenly blurted out a greeting in return, begrudgingly.</p><p class="p1">It was Raald who decided to prod Paz a little out of his tightly-wound self. “Din’s the same age as you, Paz. He’s ten years old.”</p><p class="p1">Paz’s eyes lowered. Lir’s head, while it seemed to hardly move, was making small motions to encourage Paz to initiate conversation.</p><p class="p1">Paz shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” The boy no sooner should have said, <em>I don’t care and leave me alone.</em></p><p class="p1">Raald had always been open about his assessments as best as he could. He turned to Lir and expressively shook his visored head, as though to show some displeasure at Paz’s unwillingness to cooperate, but with enough understanding of the boy’s situation. Lir responded with a tiny sigh, like the muted sound of ocean waves through the helmet’s modulator.</p><p class="p1">“The child has lost his family only a week ago, Lir. Give him time.”</p><p class="p1">Paz hid a glare, and Din tried to look away. He supposed that it’s no fun being spoken about when you, the subject of conversation, were just right in the midst of everyone.</p><p class="p1">Before then, what Lir only knew was coldness. “That’s no excuse for unsatisfactory behavior,” the man austerely justified.</p><p class="p1">Raald then signaled Din to take it from there, and the two adult Mandalorians left the two children to their devices for the entire afternoon.</p><p class="p1">“Hello,” Din said again. The only sound was of the rustling creek underneath their feet.</p><p class="p1">Paz didn’t budge, but the boy slowly looked up at him with his eyes so ablaze, they seemed almost pale silver against the sun.</p><p class="p1">“What games do you play back home?” Din began his small interview, even if he only half-felt like it. Initiating talks to begin friendships hadn’t been his strongest suit, and only felt obliged to avoid Raald’s own inquiry towards him when he returned to the homestead.</p><p class="p1">Paz finally replied with a surprisingly piercing tone. “I <em>haven’t </em>had a home.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt at loss for a while. He lowered his gaze unto the sparse grass. “I’m sorry that you lost your home…”</p><p class="p1">Paz cut through, like a razor, one more time. “Never had a home to lose to begin with…”</p><p class="p1">Din fought hard to not be upset. He hadn’t been used to the rudeness of churlish children yet. Back in Aq Vetina, most children were pleasant, but Din had always been too timorous to mingle for long.</p><p class="p1">“Do you… wanna play anything?” Din ventured once more.</p><p class="p1">Paz didn’t reply for long moments, but the boy’s jaw was set, and his glare never left. Din wondered what he may have said to continually offend Paz.</p><p class="p1">Din decided to brush this off. He shrugged. “I’ll be on those trees if you wanna join me,” he offered, and off he went, leaving Paz to stand alone under the heat.</p><p class="p1">When Din climbed the tree, Paz’s shadow was within his view. He still saw it there, outlined like a puddle of dark oil. Paz hadn’t moved. Din’s brows creased. Then he remembered what Raald had said—Paz was a fellow orphan. Din was no less reticent when he was first taken under the Tribe’s wing. The elders around him advised Raald that the child was still in shock from the loss of both home and parents. Din never actually saw his parents get slaughtered under heavy battle droid fire, and he shut his eyes tight every time the ghastly thought crept at him. It was best, the elders had assured Raald when they thought Din was fast asleep, that he had never witnessed their deaths. The child may not have properly recovered for a long time. Raald’s presence, even in silence, had somehow anchored Din to the floor of lucidity, where he may have drifted off in endless sorrow and unbidden guilt of being his family’s lone survivor.</p><p class="p1">Din peered out once more to inspect Paz’s shadow. It was still there, and Din decided for a moment if that was still his problem or not. He wondered if Paz was the same—the lone survivor, or if he had even witnessed the death of his family before his very eyes. He wondered if Paz would cry in his sleep every night for weeks, and if Lir would be the rock who would keep the child’s wits about him. Din always had the impression that there was an innate hardness in Lir which refused to topple. Now that Paz was in the picture, would circumstances eventually change with how the Mandalorian conducted himself?</p><p class="p1">That night, Raald did inspect Din’s honesty about “making friends with the new kid.” Din left out no detail with some relief. He did try to reach out to the boy who had voluntarily shut himself out to the world for a while.</p><p class="p1">“Give him time,” was what Raald said, not unkindly, repeating the same counsel he offered Lir.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Another month passed, and another. The Tribe’s children were growing in numbers, and more of those closer to Din’s and Paz’s age began to fill the horizon of both boys. To Din’s partial disappointment, Paz had remained aloof. In fact, he somehow felt that Paz was harboring a sort of resentment towards him, and he’d not known exactly why. At least not yet, as Paz kept ignoring Din’s questions when it came to his past. To be fair, Paz seemed resentful towards the world at large. What amazed Din, however, was Paz’s quiet respect for Lir.</p><p class="p1">And to Din’s discredit, he was being stubborn with regards to Paz’s old life. Raald had warned him about inquiring about people’s past. “It’s not very polite,” Raald explained one evening, under a haze of light rain pattering against the roof of his humble home. “Once we welcome someone new to the Tribe, that person starts life afresh. Their past no longer matters. <em>Clean slate</em>. Understand, ad’ika?”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t exactly comprehend it as much, even as he nodded.</p><p class="p1">Two visible ten-year olds in the Tribe turned to four, then six, and at last there were seven of them before the standard year was over. Din managed to befriend a few of them, but the rest still kept distance, until they found their way to Paz as they were matched in temperament.</p><p class="p1">Din never imagined that he would be the so-called leader of one faction, and Paz, the leader of the other. Din had heard of stories of how Raald, Lir, and a number of others arrived in the Tribe. He had always been curtly chastised for bringing up whispers on what he gathered was called <em>The Great Split</em>, so Din never came upon the full account of such tales, which altogether were banished from memory as he grew older. However, as three of the new children took his side and two took to Paz’s, and seeing that he amassed one child more than Paz, Paz had began to thoroughly avoid Din.</p><p class="p1">Now, the summer of Din’s first year with the Tribe was at its peak when tempers began to simmer with it.</p><p class="p1">As one of their exercises and under heavy supervision at first, the children had been assigned to clean the blasters. It first began as a frivolous task to pass the mornings, keep the children busy, and at the same time polish their familiarity on different tools among the Mandalorian arsenal. But as things would have it, it rapidly became competitive between Din’s group and Paz’s group on who would clean the most blasters by the end of the period.</p><p class="p1">“But that’s not fair!” a girl from Paz’s group protested. “They’ve got one kid more than us!”</p><p class="p1">“Just clean up as many as you can,” Paz said surly. “They’re all butterfingers anyway.”</p><p class="p1">The girl shrugged.</p><p class="p1">Din had held his tongue the first time. His own little team had two girls and two boys, him included, but he had been firmly taught that in Mandalorian society, one’s gender never really mattered as long as tasks are accomplished and battles are won at the end of the day.</p><p class="p1">Like this one, at this very moment.</p><p class="p1">To his frustration, and true to Paz’s word, his team had “butterfingers.” Not him personally—Din learned that he liked working with his hands. The other three, not so much. On top of that, the unannounced competition among them only spelled the risk of doing sloppy jobs. Din felt frustration rise. What was supposed to be something fun shared among the children had become a monumental chore. But it was his own fault too, he realized. He was unconsciously swept into this contest just because Paz was really starting to get into his nerves.</p><p class="p1">“Their pile’s growing,” one of the boys whispered at him, and Din took his eyes off his work for a split-second to affirm the observation.</p><p class="p1">Paz’s group had cleaned about ten blasters. His team, though with more members, had only six done.</p><p class="p1">“Look at them,” Paz intoned with poorly concealed derision. His voice was huge for a little boy’s. The claws of adolescence had reached Paz earlier than the rest. “They’re <em>struggling</em>. Must’ve had it pretty <em>easy</em>, living comfortable lives before coming here…”</p><p class="p1">“Ignore him,” was Din’s hushed order as one of the girls in his team attempted to look up from her own work with knitted brows.</p><p class="p1">To make matters worse, and to Din’s mounting exasperation, the other boy from his team dropped the piece he was working on. It was one of the older models which could suddenly go off if grossly mishandled.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Hey—!</em>“ Din began in growing irritation.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry—“ the boy managed to utter.</p><p class="p1">Paz and his team were chuckling. It sounded like flapping wings of tiny demonic creatures. At least, that’s what how Din was starting to perceive it.</p><p class="p1">“Soft hands that never knew hard work,” the boy on Paz’s group declared sneakily.</p><p class="p1">Din now saw what this was about. Paz and the children on his team had been rescued from more grueling and far more darker circumstances. They all had been freed from slavery the day they had been delivered safely—although terribly shaken (and in Paz’s case, wounded)—to the Tribe.</p><p class="p1">On the other hand, Din became acquainted with the fact that slavery still existed despite contradicting news on its abolishment. In Aq Vetina, he had definitely been well-off. His parents worked for the high magistrate’s office, in comfortable positions, with lodging and education accounted for not just for Din, but for his mother and father—especially for his father with added assurance of a brighter future, as he had been working on a higher degree in economics. That was as far as he remembered. The Djarins were not wealthy, but they were sheltered, well-cared for, well-provided for.</p><p class="p1">He never had the need to grovel or be sentenced to involuntary hard labor. He had everything he needed, everything he wanted.</p><p class="p1">The other three children with him seemed to share a similar status, pre-Tribe, as they had casually referred to their old lives without the need to expound on anything. They were all foundlings. While they all shared in common the incident that brought them together—conflict, danger of death, small wars and fires and destruction—what set them apart were their former means of living.</p><p class="p1">This saddened Din somewhat. This was territory which usually divided adults, but it pained him, nevertheless, that this arrangement trickled to the children.</p><p class="p1">“Butterfingers, butterfingers,” Paz’s team chanted softly, wickedly, very much like the children they were.</p><p class="p1">“STOP.”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t even realize that he had said it, as the voice sounded far away, almost disembodied. But the voice was unquestionably <em>his</em>. That was also when Din knew that Paz had already won, when he crumbled under the pressure of their mockery. At that moment, however, Din didn’t really care. The prosperous life Din once had, same with the other children on his team—that was something beyond their control. If their fortunes had been better off, that was that. Paz and his team managed to make this fact an affront to their very being, and Din had refused to empathize, knowing Paz can become cruel should Din show any sign of the slightest compassion.</p><p class="p1">“It’s their fearless leader,” Paz’s boy teammate said in sing-song.</p><p class="p1">Din shot a glance of daggers at the boy. This situation was cutting through Din. He had attempted to squeeze in between figurative cracks to avoid the glances of the children who were evidently looking up at him. Din didn’t want to lead <em>anyone</em>.</p><p class="p1">“You wanna know<em> fearless?</em>” The words escaped Din’s throat before he could harness them.</p><p class="p1">“Din—“ his teammates were starting to become uneasy, and took turns to try and pacify him.</p><p class="p1">All work had ceased. The clean and the as-yet-to-be-cleaned blasters lay forgotten on the ground.</p><p class="p1">Paz had drawn himself to his full height. He was growing rapidly as well as his body was developing for his age. He looked more like a thirteen-year-old.</p><p class="p1">“Show me, then, butterfingers,” Paz challenged.</p><p class="p1">Din tried hard, so hard not to further fall into Paz’s obvious netting him into an open fistfight. This instance was not new to the older children, but this would be the first among the ten-year-olds—should Din crumble further under the heated pressure of Paz’s provocation.</p><p class="p1">It was a small miracle when Din found the prudence to subtly shake his head. “Forget it,” he grumbled.</p><p class="p1">Din was about to return to the unfinished task of cleaning blasters—he realized the horrible and morbid temptation to pick one and threaten Paz with it!—and Din was suddenly horrified with the thoughts capable of entering his unguarded mind.</p><p class="p1">Paz would have none of this diplomacy. It was as though the taller boy had wanted to prove something should he wheedle all good sense away from Din. </p><p class="p1">“Your parents must be <em>pathetic</em>, raising a <em>weakling</em> like you—“</p><p class="p1">Din only saw a black void envelop him when his hands seemingly move at their own accord. His breathing was heavy, and his teeth were tightly clenched. His throat was dry, and his mind was swimming, but his thoughts—his thoughts had fallen along with the void and suddenly one of his hands was grappling at Paz’s throat.</p><p class="p1">Paz had been too shocked to react. He hadn’t expected Din to turn into this sort of monster too soon. Quickly afterwards, the children were circling them, but most of them had been as stunned as Paz and did nothing as the scene before them unfolded.</p><p class="p1">Paz was down on the ground and on his back as the boy fell hard. Din’s hold on Paz’s throat was forceful enough to send a boy of his size plummeting over almost effortlessly, and Din’s unbridled, dark rage only fueled his staggering burst of strength.</p><p class="p1">Din had balled his other hand into a fist, and in mindless succession, one after another, he rained blows on Paz’s still-shocked face, and a veil of panic began to coat the other boy’s visage.</p><p class="p1">The growls and grunts which escaped Din’s throat were foreign to his own hears. Din could still see only black and shadows, and he then perceived the faint echo of the children springing into action to fetch the grownups.</p><p class="p1">He never stopped the punches on Paz’s face even when he heard a disgusting <em>crack </em>fill the air. A near-crippling wave of pain shot through Din’s fist and to his arm, and he knew that while he had broken Paz’s nose, he had somehow splintered some of his fingers as well, victims to a feat which he had never attempted in his young life before.</p><p class="p1">Paz was yelling wetly through a compedious spray of blood, a lot of which had soaked Din’s knuckles. Din yelled in retort, and had no recall of what he had shot back at Paz. But he could see the momentary fear and apparent agitation in Paz’s very pale eyes, where tears had begun to fall.</p><p class="p1">The grownups were finally there. Din knew that, because he had been bodily lifted away from Paz, and a huge distance was immediately placed between him and the injured boy—and he heard Raald’s frighteningly sharp and utterly <em>displeased</em> voice fill the air.</p><p class="p1">The next moment that Din had brought to account was Raald’s visor staring squarely and gravely back at him. The man’s grip on his arms was like iron as Din had begun to thrash. Raald’s words were lost to him, and Din only heard ringing in his ears. He felt wetness on his own eyes. Din had been sobbing furiously and he had not even discerned it until that very instant.</p><p class="p1">Raald, in his own wordless fury, had carried Din home. Din’s arms had begun to hurt with Raald’s wrangling embrace around him, meant to calm him down, and Din’s thrashing gradually abated.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian had deposited Din, who was still dizzied from his own crying fit, on a futon stationed in hut’s small den. Raald presently drew a chair and sat himself in front of Din, and was very still, his visored gaze pinning Din in place.</p><p class="p1">Din forced the remnants of sobs to subside. He clutched at his hand which had begun to ache sharply in earnest. He waited, and Raald waited, until the only sound in the hut was the hum of the chrono. It was barely noon.</p><p class="p1">Raald sat there, looming over him, like the very embodiment of patience itself. Din had finally calmed down, but tears continued to stream down his flushed cheeks, his body still reeling from the effort of his attack on Paz.</p><p class="p1">Finally, Raald spoke. It had a hauntingly placid timbre which Din would never forget.</p><p class="p1">“Are we done with our rage yet, ad’ika?” asked the man of Din.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded with a vigor that could have rivaled a storm.</p><p class="p1">Raald shook his helmeted head. “The other children relayed to us what happened. What Paz said was brutal, but what you did was far worse. You had let him provoke you. You’ve let the sun set on your anger.”</p><p class="p1">The heat crawled fully on Din’s cheeks. He held his fractured fist even tighter, holding back whimpers of pain.</p><p class="p1">“I-I’m sorry…” Din stuttered, the air choking him as more sobs fought their way out of his chest.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t apologize to me, Din.” Raald’s harsh timbre ate slowly at Din. “Get that hand bandaged, and<em> then </em>apologize to Paz.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s body grew cold. He suddenly felt the unfairness of the situation. “Before I punched him, I did <em>nothing </em>wrong!”</p><p class="p1">“DIN!”</p><p class="p1">Raald’s definitive roar of his name struck Din like a slap. The boy bowed his head in mixed emotions, with shame only being one of them.</p><p class="p1">“Paz had lived a life unlike yours, and you, had lived one unlike Paz’s. I know we have said time and again to disregard the circumstances of our lives before the Tribe, but Paz may have a harder time putting that behind him. I advise you not to take it against him,” continued Raald in stern rebuke.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian then stood up from the chair, which he slid back to the table where they ate their meals. Din remained on the futon, steeping in his own silent battle within himself.</p><p class="p1">“I won’t be repeating myself,” Raald said in finality, and had stepped out of the hut, leaving Din to let the gears in his mind, heart, and soul operate in either remorse or in newly-forged wisdom.</p><p class="p1">Din took a moment to get up of the futon, and with some reluctance, set out to do what he was told.</p><p class="p1">The next morning, Din verily had a difficult time moving both his hands. His right hand did take a good amount of damage, but his left arm was mildly sprained from the strain of pushing Paz back and taking the impact along with Paz’s fall.</p><p class="p1">Raald had diligently peeled an apple for him, stirred the oatmeal for him, and guided him when Din attempted to put food in his mouth. That morning as well, Raald had fully disclosed his intentions with the words: “If I can call you my son, Din, I would be very happy. I hope you won’t mind, but I’ll let you think about it.”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t need to think about it any further. As soon as Raald uttered the words, Din had unceremoniously got up from his chair, and—bandaged hands and all—had come up to Raald and threw his arms around the Mandalorian’s neck.</p><p class="p1">Raald had known little affection beforehand, and could only sit back as Din held him in hallowed silence. Then Raald slowly lifted a hand, and patted Din’s head, and they stayed that way for long moments.</p><p class="p1">Din knew that he was finally home once again.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Now I know this seems like an ol’ filler chapter, but I promise you that things would come together as the story goes on. :) I hope I haven’t scarred anyone (emotionally… ahahjwdhjw) with this chapter. And yep more made-up backstory for our beloved HAMB (Heavy Artillery Mandalorian Boi :P) Paz. As always, I’m eternally grateful for any feedback and reviews! &lt;3</p><p>Edit: <br/>Ages of Mando OC’s during 19 BBY:<br/>Lir Vizsla - 33 y/o<br/>Raald Movan - 31 y/o (his age when he rescued Din who I put as 10 y/o)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Little Ones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As Din further recovers from his injuries, Clan Elder Zia gets to know his mind better as Mand’alor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, we are back to our regular programming. Meaning, enough with the flashbacks for a sec there. I hope ya’ll enjoy this little update!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><b>Chapter 13: Little Ones</b> <b></b></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The moon’s swirling amethyst sky certainly looked different without the helmet on.</p><p class="p1">Din felt rather silly slipping the helmet <em>repeatedl</em>y on and off his face, just to reflect on the comparison of how the world had looked so <em>many</em> years before to how it looked <em>now</em>, almost too suddenly. In a tiny moment, it felt like a child’s amusing game of peek-a-boo—and <em>he</em> was the child.</p><p class="p1">He knew while he had taken the helmet off once in a while for full evenings, it was within a closed space, no windows if there were any at all. He very seldom had full view of the sky, the horizon, or open grounds that stretched for miles. In the rare moments when he was alone as he tracked his quarry as a bounty hunter, he still kept the helmet on. All the features he needed to sight his prey were embedded into this beskar skull; the wiring and all the small bits which made the helmet practically livable in for days at a time had been perfected by the Tribe. It was their own sacred and <em>secret </em>technology.</p><p class="p1">Anti-condensation mechanism, accurate temperature control, equipped with a special kind of tubing which ventilated the helmet well enough so they weren’t breathing the same stale air for hours—expertly crafted into a durable shell which could withstand deadly blows and deflect numerous types of blaster bolts. They had been meant, indeed, to be kept on for as long as its wearer could possibly manage. Din had been so used to it that there were times when he believed that the vision, the sounds, the smells which translated within the helmet were the sounds of the <em>real</em>, outside world, and when he slipped it off, all environment seemed counterfeit.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps that was how things were to be interpreted, anyway, once one had sworn the Creed. The only world that was real was the one underneath the beskar skull. Many a stranger had thought that wearing it for a lifetime was penance, but Din hardly felt it was so, as all his senses were enhanced in the levels he wished, whenever they were needed.</p><p class="p1">It was only on that very morning when he had first woken up from his wounds gained from his trials the day before. After Drali had fetched Emon and had the boy return to the brothers’ assigned tent, Din had the rest of the day to himself. However, he was not one to remain too stationary for long, even after sustaining serious injuries. If he stayed in bed until the Maker-knows-when, he might as well be dead. Besides, he was no longer in crippling pain.</p><p class="p1">The pearlescent amethyst skies seen by his bare eyes were dazzling, but Din felt he had enough excitement for today. With momentary resolve, he replaced the helmet on his head and kept it there.</p><p class="p1">“B-bblaaawah!!” a small child’s exuberant squeal met Din’s ears the moment the helmet hissed in place.</p><p class="p1">In pure instinct, and out of a newly-acquired habit, Din’s body whipped to direction of the commotion. He felt dizzy for a bit, not really registering the possibility of the sound at this time. He was certain that he had left Grogu with a teacher who would be training him at a distance and for as<em> long</em> as Grogu needed it—</p><p class="p1">The view from within his helmet met the toddling form of a human child, perhaps no older than a standard year. It seemed to have just learned the idea of walking <em>fast</em>, and the little one was blindly making its way to him in a fit of happy, jubilant gurgles.</p><p class="p1">“Hey—what’re you doing here, little fella?” Before Din realized it, he had bent down on a knee to meet the child’s running embrace towards him for reasons which puzzled him. Was the baby aware that it was approaching a full stranger at top speed?</p><p class="p1">The toddler had the rosiest cheeks he’s seen on a baby. Din had never really mingled long with new parents who held their little ones on display, and Grogu was too <em>green,</em> though held the same amount of whimsical charm; this felt like altogether a foreign experience. The child had the roundest hazel eyes; it babbled and cooed as Din raised it comfortably to his eye level. He knew the baby wouldn’t see his face behind the helmet, but he nonetheless wore a full smile.</p><p class="p1">That was when it <em>finally</em> dawned on the toddler that it was being held by someone it hadn’t seen before, even under the guise of a helmet. It then scrunched its face so hard, its little forehead crinkled like pudding in an exaggerated frown. The child stayed that way but didn’t cry, to Din’s surprise. What surprised him was the lighthearted chuckle that emerged from his lips as a reaction to the child’s sudden change of expression.</p><p class="p1">“Guuuuuwaaahhhh!” the child declared indignantly, and in full force, <em>plopped </em>both its chubby hands upon the very visors of his helmet.</p><p class="p1">“Uhhmmpph…” Din began, suddenly blinded.</p><p class="p1">“AHHH that’s rude!!!” came a cry of high reprimand.</p><p class="p1">Din huffed as he struggled to see through the windshield-wiper fingers of the baby over his vision. The voice belonged to a young Mandalorian girl, perhaps of Emon’s age.</p><p class="p1"><em>Another child</em>, Din mused. Was this encampment teeming of but teenagers, little children, and babies?</p><p class="p1">“Jila!! Oh my GOSH! Come back here this minute and don’t just—“</p><p class="p1">Din sighed. Just like the small child called Jila, this young lady seemed unaware of the path she’s trodden and was making her way forth in a gaze that seemed annoyed but unseeing. She was helmetless and wore only partial armor, apparently on a break. <em>Do these kids have school?</em></p><p class="p1">And like Jila, the girl took the very last minute to fasten her gaze on both the baby and the stranger that held it.</p><p class="p1">And when she did, her mouth hung open.</p><p class="p1">“Begging your pardon—!” was the girl’s flustered greeting, and she automatically held her hands up to receive the little toddler from Din’s hold back into hers. “So sorry, Sir, I didn’t know that you were here and I was babysitting that little <em>cretin</em> troublemaker…”</p><p class="p1">“Hhhhowaaaahmm!” Jila fired back, and slapped a hand once on Din’s helmet.</p><p class="p1">“The baby’s no trouble,” Din revealed, and it was sincere. The smile underneath the beskar had not left him. The little toddler bequeathal was successful, and Jila had returned to the young Mandalorian girl’s jurisdiction.</p><p class="p1">“Is she?” the girl asked dubiously, scrunching her own face at Jila. So Jila was a little baby girl, and she had the sweetest little disposition even after the rattling experience with Din. Jila was all smiles again now that she was with a familiar presence. “Jila!” the girl addressed the child sternly. “You’ve just run up to the Mand’alor like it’s nobody’s business, so you gotta apologize.”</p><p class="p1">Jila was looking up at Din again and with a shy gurgle, withdrew and settled its curly dark head over the girl’s shoulder and didn’t budge further. Din managed another chuckle.</p><p class="p1">The girl rocked the baby resignedly. “I’m really sorry, Sir. Jila’s just learned to run and that’s kinda all she’s been doing.”</p><p class="p1">“I understand,” Din replied gently with just enough firmness as to take the girl’s word seriously. Children can naturally detect insincerity sometimes, and that shouldn’t be trifled with. With some thought, he added, “What is your House or Clan, and your name?”</p><p class="p1">The girl’s eyes widened as she stood unprepared for the question. Din felt a moment’s uneasiness, wondering on how far removed and inaccessible a Mand’alor was—or <em>should</em> be—from everyone around him, or at least to the belief of <em>these </em>Mandalorians, especially the young ones.</p><p class="p1">“Thava Syng,” the girl replied, straightening herself up as dutifully as she could with Jila still draped over her shoulder, babbling quietly. “I… I don’t have a House or a Clan… anymore. But I guess I’m Clan Syng, but I’m all who’s left…”</p><p class="p1"><em>Just like Alix Javell</em>, <em>only with the situation switched</em>. Din’s brows knitted themselves. “Orphaned?”</p><p class="p1">Thava nodded, the color from her face draining a little, and her eyes were suddenly grave. “A lot of us are. But we’re being looked after, by all means. Don’t you worry about us, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">Thava must have seen the subtle turn of Din’s head on the bundle that was Jila.</p><p class="p1">“Jila’s mum and dad are out on patrol. Supply runs. We have those periodically. I’ve been wanting to go on those runs but they say I’m too… greenhorn… still. I look after the smaller kids when their folks are on shift.” There was a tightness in Thava’s voice, a passing yearning about the fact that Jila still had parents, but hers were gone.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded to the girl once, in acknowledgement of the information, but whatever words he had were suddenly lodged in his throat, and Din had an inkling why. Thava may have then sensed that he had nothing more to say, and was making herself and her little charge feel less like a bother to him as much as possible as seconds ticked by.</p><p class="p1">“H-have a good day, Sir,” Thava said, a little unsure and a little timidly, and with a playful glare at Jila, she hoisted the baby feigning its heaviness, and Jila squeaked ticklishly in response.</p><p class="p1">No sooner had the children disappeared behind a boulder which covered the path leading uphill, where his side of the encampment was, Zia Vauss appeared, and she seemed to glide on the stony path towards him. Din had caught the Elder being generous with a warm smile towards Thava, and most especially to Jila. He also caught Thava’s polite greeting towards Zia in Mando’a, and Din couldn’t help but smile once more.</p><p class="p1">So Emon’s and Thava’s generation were still clearly taught the language, despite—and maybe <em>because of</em>—everything. The preservation of that precious aspect of Mandalorian culture was paramount in their current dwindled numbers.</p><p class="p1">“There you are,” Zia called brightly, as she gracefully made her way to Din. Zia carried herself with a refinement so unbecoming of a warrior, but Din had a sneaking suspicion that Zia may have been one of the best in her time. “It was good that Beady had told me of your whereabouts. I was starting to worry. You’ve been away for a good two hours.”</p><p class="p1">Zia said all this with a wryness in her which Din found strangely pleasant. If she weren’t a hardened Mandalorian, she would certainly be one of those grandmothers who’d habitually and feistily pinch your cheek, no matter how old you’ve grown. You can grow old, but the Elders, of course, will always be older, and authority at their age no longer fazed them. Zia’s full head of silver hair were still in their customary plaits, high and gleaming. In Din’s estimation, she could be no younger than seventy. She looked wonderful and well-kept for her age—if Din could risk a little bit of rudeness for thinking so!</p><p class="p1">But firstly…</p><p class="p1">“Beady?” Din inquired of her, almost instantly.</p><p class="p1">Zia was by Din’s side and she chuckled. “The med droid. The children named it as soon as it’s been reactivated.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh—“ Din had nearly forgotten about the 2-1B model which helped Naya stitch his insides back together…</p><p class="p1">“The Lady Vauss called?” Beady was suddenly hot on Zia’s heels. Upon hearing the mechanical voice, Din had nearly leapt out of his own skin, coupled with a bit of swearing under his breath. It registered as a <em>very</em> alarmed twitch which Zia would surely have noted, much to Din’s embarrassment.</p><p class="p1">Zia decided to let it slide as she turned to the droid named Beady, ambling with steps that whirred with every movement. “No, you fool,” Zia rebuked the droid good-naturedly. “But thank you for letting me know that our patient will be quickly on the mend, now that he’s—“ Zia’s pointed gaze landed on Din’s iron-cocooned head—“getting some <em>fresh</em> air.”</p><p class="p1">Din sighed. Zia can be scathing, but with a <em>fondness</em> which Din would have to get used to.</p><p class="p1">“Very good, Lady Vauss. Sir,” Beady awkwardly issued a reverent bow to Din, as well as a droid with hip joints could manage. Din froze in place. Despite a unique encounter with a reprogrammed IG-11, he felt no inclination to be beholden to any droid for a while.</p><p class="p1">Beady ambled its way back to the encampment.</p><p class="p1">The hollow sound of wind from faraway filled a moment’s stillness.</p><p class="p1">“That was a noble fight you put up in there, my dear,” Zia’s voice was suddenly hushed, but the matter-of-fact tone stayed.</p><p class="p1">Din flinched at Zia’s term of endearment for a scarred brute such as himself, but something warm and welcoming pooled in his being.</p><p class="p1">“I—“ Twice that day, Din was at loss for words. Between the smoldering cruelty of grueling ritual combat and the wide-eyed innocence of little Jila, Din admitted—at that very minute—that he had come undone. It was the same stark contrast which drew him to Grogu in the first place.</p><p class="p1">Zia dismissively shook her head, brushing off his attempts to explain himself. “I’m rather aghast, however, with how those young people ganged up on you like that. I know they’ve all their honorable reasons, challenging you to the throne and all—but, as you have noticed, we were all taking this in stride as best as we could. Almost making it up as we go. It’s been a millennia, at least, since open gladiatorial games to claim the Darksaber had ever occurred. At least, that’s what the ancient texts say.”</p><p class="p1">Din remained speechless, bidding her silently to continue.</p><p class="p1">“Not even holorecordings. This era of Mandalorians would just have to take their word for it,” Zia went on. “I know you remember the one named Alix Javell. The young widower. That moment facing you in combat seemed to have impacted him the most, I gather.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s ears perked up. “How so?” he asked.</p><p class="p1">“He had felt honored to be part of something worth the great songs,” Zia relayed to Din, her tone reverting to a jesting cadence. “I’m sure of it, make no mistake, my dear. Alas, young Alix had fallen prey to the jaws of scholarly exploits. Journalism, if you will. He has a passion for history.”</p><p class="p1">“I see…” Din mumbled pensively.</p><p class="p1">“I’m only relieved that none of your challengers bear you any ill will. And as I discern—even Lady Bo-Katan. Of course, I’m not one to speak for her entirely. But her head has cooled considerably, should you come across her anytime soon.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s… great to hear, I guess.” Din felt like a foolish youngling, only taking everything in, and keeping guard over his own thoughts.</p><p class="p1">“But enough about them,” Zia spouted. She squarely gazed at Din with as much curiosity as a mother hen can muster. “Anything about you I need to know, <em>cuun</em> <em>Mand’alor</em>?”</p><p class="p1">Din felt a choked, uncomfortable chortle leave his throat. He knew that he possessed a modesty which even pained him sometimes. He reminded himself that he had brought all this <em>Mand’alor business</em> on his sorry <em>ass</em> once he agreed to Bo-Katan’s challenge. He would readily have to take responsibility.</p><p class="p1">“There’s… so much, and yet so little to know of, Lady Vauss. I just don’t know where to begin,” Din confessed in all honesty.</p><p class="p1">“Then I’ll ask you outright,” offered Zia. “Is there anything about your own Mandalorian Way which I need to be enlightened about?”</p><p class="p1">Din was quiet awhile. “The Way of Mandalore is no longer my Way. I broke the Creed…”</p><p class="p1">“Well, you still know very well that the helmet is your home, young Djarin. Or you would not have put it back.”</p><p class="p1">Din knew his face colored underneath the beskar.</p><p class="p1">“You simply reforged yourself back to a Way your soul resonates with,” Zia said with a tender reassurance. “Anyway, what I meant was—your past has greatly formed you into the Mandalorian you are now. And as <em>our </em>Mand’alor, Din Djarin—let me know your mind, so as an elder, I can guide you accordingly in a manner I’d know best.”</p><p class="p1"><em>She’s already doing it, and quite well</em>, Din admitted, feeling his flushed cheeks still ablaze.</p><p class="p1">“I… I had never known that we were called the <em>Children of the Watch</em> by those not of our Way. We were simply called the Tribe, and the Tribe were made up of many Clans, interspersed throughout the galaxy, but nomadic. We would settle once every five years, or more, if conditions allowed. From when I was a Foundling until… until the time of the Purge, our own slice of the Tribe had moved for a total of four times. We began in the Mid-Rim, then moved to the Outer Rim, and stayed there.</p><p class="p1">We were educated very closely to the tenets, the doctrines, the texts which the Tribe had been built upon. Once we swore the Creed, we never took our helmets off. It was a way to honor the Oneness—something like the Manda, but among the living. It’s said our progenitors were <em>not </em>even human to begin with…”</p><p class="p1">That was when Zia’s eyebrows arched, as though in recognition of that part of his tale.</p><p class="p1">“…and that as time passed, new species were introduced into Mandalorian culture. No species is above or below the other, as long as they are Mandalorian. And to fully honor that, the uniformity of a helmet kept the spirit of that unity alive. To take it off is… a great dishonor to that sacred pact. It would be like spitting on the memory of our progenitors…”</p><p class="p1">Din hadn’t realized that his voice had begun to break.</p><p class="p1">At that moment, he felt little use to be wearing the helmet. In downtimes such as these, it was simply a part of his comfort zone. With little ceremony, he slid the helmet off his head to reveal a face with eyes so sad—Zia had somehow reached out to briefly and comfortingly lay a hand on the crook of his arm.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve only spoken to Lady Kryze about this that only scratched the surface. Forgive me, my dear—I try not to come off as nosy or intrusive.” She chuckled, the sound like clotted honey to the ears. “You’ve broken your Creed for the sake of a child. <em>Yours</em>, as I’ve heard.”</p><p class="p1">Din turned to her. Zia’s wise face had a full elegant charm once she’s revealed a small vulnerable part of herself. She looked at the horizon, as though searching for some poetry there. “The love of Clan would somehow always precede the adherence to Creed. Clan before Creed.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt puzzlement inch into him. “You sound like you’ve lived those very words…”</p><p class="p1">Zia finally turned to face him. Her eyes were surprisingly gentle. “No, my dear. I’m afraid I’ve been too held back by my own fears to come close to something that you have laid down for the sake of fatherly love. But had I the chance—by the Maker—I <em>would have</em>.”</p><p class="p1">There was another bout of stillness which chilled and warmed Din at the same time.</p><p class="p1">Zia’s tone was wistful yet steadfast. “The very love for our children is what had brought us to our present predicament. It seems that everywhere you turn, at least in this lovely stronghold of ours, a child would be in sight. A boy of eleven here, a girl of sixteen there. A baby if you turn your head a little further. Thava. Emon and Oryn. Even Van and Drali. Van is all of twenty-one, and was Emon’s age when the Purge happened. Drali had been old enough to join the line of fighting, but was promptly told off by the older Mandalorians—the more <em>seasoned </em>ones, as we have all believed. Our fierce protectiveness towards the little ones, even in a culture which deems to sharpen them like tools for war—no holds were barred. The parents and guardians had given their lives and now are gone. We have the generation that came after them in our wake, under our guidance and care. But… these little ones, they know they are lost. We are lost, my dear. Even as Lady Kryze tried as much as she could to bring us all back together—we remain grappling at thin air.”</p><p class="p1">Pain that didn’t come from his injuries had inched its way to his chest. The memory of his own birth parents and how they threw their own lives to the ether so that Din could have the mere <em>possibility</em> of survival came crashing on him. It had been a gamble. Din’s life had almost been taken by a super battle droid. Had it not been for Raald and the other Mandalorians which saved what was left of his old village, he would have been just another corpse under Aq Vetina’s battle-torn rubble.</p><p class="p1">Zia plodded on, in a reverie which matched Din’s own. “At that moment, all we could think about was the survival of the little ones. All they needed was to survive. What came afterwards—that was where we fell short. I can’t speak for myself—my aging bones are still around—“ she paused with a quiet laugh, “but for the majority… what can be planned ahead of unexpected death? The Purge came too suddenly. We fought and acted in any way we could. Many had fought to the last. But now we are scattered and our children are orphans. Once we try to rebuild…”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Survival… and what comes afterwards…</em>
</p><p class="p1">When Din had parted with Grogu, all he had in his heart and mind was the fact that his child was now in better hands. How in all the hells did he <em>know?</em> The Jedi who rescued them was <em>supposedly</em> an ancient enemy of Mandalorians. However, he absolutely saw <em>no</em> cause for hostility towards a man who was willing to take Grogu in, after Grogu called out at the Seeing Stone, and the child nearly wagered his, and Din’s own life for it. Grogu was safe now, learning the ways of his kind—but what would come afterwards? Did Grogu even want to return to him? Grogu’s species would live for many centuries. His son would outlive him. Din’s mind went blank.</p><p class="p1">“Lady Vauss,” Din cut in not rudely, in the midst of his own thoughts but with solemnness to keep the gravity of the conversation. “We rebuild when we have soldiers, heavily armed and readily trained. We’re not that desperate yet that we’d send our children to… to war.”</p><p class="p1">“No,” Zia agreed, almost inaudibly, as though the very word was a fragile thing. “<em>Of course not</em>. For all our culture deems someone as young as thirteen to come of age—it is just that. The Verd’goten is but tradition. Realistically… we couldn’t send thirteen-year-olds to their deaths. Baptism by fire be damned.”</p><p class="p1">The wrinkle on Din’s forehead deepened. “For all our different creeds, at least… at least we agree on one thing.”</p><p class="p1">Zia’s smile was once again fraught with her own brand of wisdom. “One thing of many, I hope, Mand’alor. Now… look at me, keeping you out and about like this. I know you feel much better, but a little more rest is in order.”</p><p class="p1">Din shook his head in a manner of someone now growing accustomed to a helmetless existence. “We need to get to work right away. We’ll start first thing tomorrow.”</p><p class="p1">“Heavens,” Zia proclaimed with amusement. “Well, I suppose you’re right. We have a long and arduous journey ahead of us. But… onward, Mandalore.”</p><p class="p1">If Din felt any pressure, dread, or even excitement, he could only express a small, priceless moment of enthusiasm when he firmly agreed with a steady, <em>“Oya.” </em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>***</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Er yea. “Young Djarin.” xD In this fic and as I interpreted the timeline, Din is 38 y/o in 10 ABY. He was 37 when he rescued Grogu. That’s relatively young compared to our ol’ Zia Vauss. She’s 70 y/o. A proper grandma (or even great grandma. Teehee.) Thank you all for being patient for this short, dialogue-heavy chapter. :P It’s a bit of a character sketch as well as a situational sketch which would set up more of the story. The “Progenitors” as I recall, are Legends stuff. Some of the other info I made up to fit into the Legends Mando history. However, I’d still be following canon history (so far). </p><p>Man, this is going slower than I thought ahaha but like what Zia said: Onward!! :D As always, I’m very grateful for kudos if you like what you read, and a review if you feel so inclined. &lt;3 Kisses!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. To Be Worthy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Naya comes across an interesting discovery on the Mand’alor. Din seeks conversation with Bo-Katan despite his gnawing doubts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lots of end notes, so I’ll spare you the beginning ones. :P</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 14: To Be Worthy</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The tragedy was called <em>The Night of A Thousand Tears. </em></p><p class="p1">Naya Tyrr was but an impressionable toddler during the tail end of the Clone Wars. While she’d heard the mournfully haunting songs that ate at the rest of her childhood about the night which heightened the Siege of Mandalore, Naya <em>lived it</em>. She saw everything through the night, quite <em>miraculously</em>.</p><p class="p1">Imperial gunships had come out of nowhere, entering Mandalore’s orbit with no call or warning. The Republic had suddenly transformed into the Galactic Empire, and its new ships were damnably <em>everywhere</em>. They had flown with heated urgency to every nook and cranny of the known galaxy in frenetic attempts to subjugate each living soul—or else cease to be one.</p><p class="p1">She had only been five years old, but as she and her family desperately found means to evacuate amidst the assault by these gunships, her innocuous mind <em>knew</em> why it was named <em>The Night of A Thousand Tears.</em></p><p class="p1">Mandalorians were hardy people, even as they were still reeling from being tossed around by one system of government to another—wartime, then Pacifism, and then wartime again—but the war remained. The tears were not literal tears. Many eyes were dry that night, yet shone with an aching resolve to come back stronger. Again and again.</p><p class="p1">The tears were ones that fell from the sky.</p><p class="p1">Bombardment rounds like drops of molten flame had smothered the planet, where many poorly-trained soldiers still held their ground. A proper army could not be assembled for Mandalore’s defense after being newly released from the shroud of Pacifism. In a lengthy era where no law-abiding citizen had been allowed to openly carry arms or wear armor, those who were able-bodied enough to carry a blaster and wear a jetpack had come unprepared. So many wounded, if not dead. A thousand tears had picked on a thousand lives.</p><p class="p1">Then Naya grew older to twenty-seven standard years. How did time fly by so fast? She wished she cared a little more. The only struggle where she poured her heart into was the need to enter the medical field. After seeing the night of so many wounded, her budding mind seared by the sight of agony, she felt a calling to ease the pain of those in battle—to bring them to safety, to health, to life. She didn’t care if the only school was then run by Imperial sympathizers. The university had the tools she needed to learn, and her teachers were patient and willing. Her colleagues shared the same eagerness, the same youth and vigor to pursue something noble, no matter whose flag was unfurled on each pole and pillar. At the time, it was the Empire’s. She was nearing the end of her studies, and everything seemed well and dandy, day in and day out just like any other, for months and years.</p><p class="p1">Then, just as it had been during The Night of A Thousand Tears, the Imperial Destroyers bore on them—no call, no warning, and only punctuating their arrival with the bloodcurdling sounds of an apocalypse.</p><p class="p1">Empires come and go; Empires are built and then they fall. The Empire had been on their way to being snuffed out by an extensively overwhelming rebellion, and they wanted to take as many as they could down with them. Mandalore was not spared of that fate—and as news had spread so horrifyingly, each and every Mandalorian life was in grave danger.</p><p class="p1">They were being finished, hunted down, scraped away.</p><p class="p1">The chaos was unlike anything she had ever imagined. The university was gone; it had been reduced to unrecognizable wreckage, along with the rest of the capital. Sundari was ablaze. The bare faces she saw were blackened by soot and blood. Even the helmeted ones were wet with blood. <em>So much blood.</em></p><p class="p1">However, unlike The Night of a Thousand Tears, where Mandalorian faces were spotless of tears, this time—the night which paved way to many more nights which filled the <em>Great Purge</em>—there were<em> real </em>tears that stained <em>her people’s faces.</em></p><p class="p1">In a blink of an eye, the Mandalorians—a proud, powerful, and notoriously fearless culture of peoples—were reduced to nothing, to helpless dots in a vast emptiness. For Naya, there was no time to feel hurt or be afraid. Before she knew it, she was hauling wounded out of the line of fire, risking her own head with each attempt at scouring the battlefield for those in need of aid. She dragged and carried the injured who were twice her size and weight, covered in blood that wasn’t hers, until her body was numb, trembling and weak from overwork. Her fellow <em>baar’ure </em>were past exhaustion as well, as they waited against all hope for supplies and reinforcements which never arrived.</p><p class="p1">She recalled so well how she wept her own tears in utter defeat of her spirit. She had never wanted to feel it again. It was so raw, so heart-wrenching, so disgustingly <em>painful</em>. In the end, she had simply crumpled to the floor of the medical tent in the midst of dying soldiers. She was stunned, hungry, dehydrated, and <em>tired. </em>She didn’t realize the moment where she had taxed her body to the limit that she herself lost all agency to the world. When she came to, she was not on Mandalore anymore. She was adrift in a small, battered Kom’rk-class starship, hooked to her own tangle of lifelines, saddled with news that Mandalore was lost, and so many were dead. Those were thousands who she could never save.</p><p class="p1">In the stupor of recovery, lying idle for the longest time in her life, she deeply knew that her uncaring demeanor had been a facade. She knew the names of those who had endeavored to lead the Mando’ade. These were many personages over a short span of years, but it felt like empty puppetry. It was degradation to the point of hilarity. One of her own House, a once-respected warrior by the name of Rook Kast, had even taken to the firestorms for an outsider: a <em>monster</em> named Maul.</p><p class="p1">Mandalorians were now nothing more than a passing tale of warriors who no longer existed; those who survived, and the few who ventured to the surface of backwater planets were seen as remnants, even poorly by Imperial standards. If the Empire was in shambles, the Mandalorians were worse off. They were living with a heart that was seemingly no longer beating.</p><p class="p1">It was as good as over.</p><p class="p1">“Excuse me, Doctor Tyrr, begging your pardon… but I’ve the reports…”</p><p class="p1">The medical droid’s genteel yet steely voice broke through her dark meandering. For a moment, all were forgotten save the realization that the droid addressed her with a title which she only held in her daydreams.</p><p class="p1">“Reports?” she echoed dazedly.</p><p class="p1">She knew the droid had been named Beady (from the “B” of its model code; children can be both clever yet unoriginal at the same time, Naya sighed), but in a split-second, she forgot what “reports” she had asked of him. Her dismal thoughts were taking a toll on her.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, doctor. I bear Din Djarin’s medical records from his most recent examination. I performed a full-body scan before and after the surgical procedure,” Beady replied dutifully, straight as a pin.</p><p class="p1">“Of course.” Naya blinked, surprised with how an important matter cleanly fell out of mind. She <em>had </em>to pull herself back together. Perhaps… the guilt of nearly killing the man—the <em>Mand’alor</em>, partly crippled her coherence. “Thank you, Beady. But you needn’t call me a doctor… yet.”</p><p class="p1">Beady’s bulky head seemed to quiver a little, as though short-circuiting. “Oh, that’s so <em>odd</em>. The manner in which you conducted the procedure with such skill merited the title. But if that is what… <em>Miss</em> Tyrr… wishes…”</p><p class="p1">Naya gave the droid a mildly exasperated glare. “Just show me the records. Please and thank you.”</p><p class="p1">With a series of tiny beeps, Beady quickly transmitted the info to Naya’s datapad. Naya surveyed the familiar diagram of a human male body which highlighted the specific active injury which she had just administered upon. Blinking numbers calculated Din Djarin’s recovery rate and overall status of his physical well-being.</p><p class="p1">Naya was silent for a long, tremulous moment as her eyes lingered on the report.</p><p class="p1">It’s no surprise that even a Mandalorian of Din’s calibre has suffered grave injuries over the years. However, the diagnostic charts left her in both genuine awe and worry.</p><p class="p1">The man may have suffered every single injury under all known suns, and it was a damn <em>wonder</em> that he was still standing and in good fighting form… <em>so far</em>. Fractures, concussions, old wounds where still-visible layers of scar tissue formed around organs and cavities. His heart was healthy, his cranium was<em> surprisingly</em> sound; the form of his muscles and nerves were hale and in proper order. The bacta had taken its effect and the stab wound which she herself dealt on the man was already starting to mend quickly—and only because she had used on him the only fresh bottle she had with her on this trip. It was the only one she had left in her meager kit. She bit her lip and felt a dip in her demeanor.</p><p class="p1">What caught her attention was the even thicker wad of internal scarring which, once upon a time, had enveloped his right lung, yet reached distressingly close to the heart. She recalled how maneuvering around this stubborn tissue to get through the open stab wound and the injuries further in had been bit of a challenge. Nothing she could handle, of course, but she recognized sloppily-healed ballistic injuries throughout her still-growing medical career. This one, in particular, had been a ruinous mess caused by blaster bolts which could fully devastate the body with exploding, heated fragments as soon as they formed entry wounds. Not only shot once, but a total of<em> three </em>times. The culprit appeared to be a powerful long-range weapon, fired while in probable pursuit. These were posterior entry wounds.</p><p class="p1">Naya froze for a second. She may have known of such weapons. These were used by a number of sharpshooters who had possessed more relentless skill than most in the Imperial Army.</p><p class="p1">And these were some of the many weapons which have been notably used during the<em> Great Purge</em>.</p><p class="p1">The horrid scarring within Djarin’s body had been there a while, but to Naya’s estimation, could be no older than five years.</p><p class="p1">There was still a lot of mystery to uncover about the new Mand’alor, but after Naya chanced upon talk that the man had never set foot among mainstream Mandalorian society, she had assumed that he knew little of the Purge, and only heard the stories. A sect such as the <em>Children of the Watch </em>valued thorough isolation.</p><p class="p1">She would never have guessed that he may have fought in the Purge as well—and survived the inferno, like the remainder of them had.</p><p class="p1">Her eyes trailed once more over the diagrams, letting her trained mind sift through all the information. Din Djarin had surely gone through figurative hell and back with what she finally concluded from all these reports. She didn’t suppose that her first patient after a long, dreary hiatus would be the <em>Mand’alor</em>… and a serious case, at that.</p><p class="p1">“Miss Tyrr…” Beady patiently drawled, shattering the silence.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, yes…” Naya brought the datapad carefully down her lap. “Kindly delete your records, Beady. Just in case. They’ll be safe with me, so don’t worry about that.”</p><p class="p1">“Uh... Very well,” Beady said with no further questions, and with another series of beeps, the droid obeyed.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Lady Vauss said I might find you here,” Din told Bo-Katan quietly.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan lifted her head, the verdance of her eyes suddenly bereft of all its usual sharpness. The sight of her in ponderous silence, holding her helmet close to her bossom as though it were an infant as her fingers idly traced the emblem of an owl’s face painted on it, brought a certain wonder to Din. She was a excruciatingly volatile—one moment, she would be ferocious and unyielding; the next moment, she seemed almost <em>harmless </em>and reserved. Such quality in any warrior was what kept Din on the edge.</p><p class="p1">But many had said, mostly in an indirect way, that he himself held such a quality—although for a while, Din thought that his own nature was predictable. But it came from personal assessment, of which could still drastically change overtime, and far more than it <em>already</em> had.</p><p class="p1">“Had she?” the woman said, the crispness of her words reverberating throughout the rock canopy which she had decided to hold conference within herself.</p><p class="p1">However, Din knew that she was somehow expecting him, probably with a hint from Zia. The elder had an inexonerable manner of shepherding her flock, no matter how far they could have strayed—in a literal sense, <em>for now.</em></p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan turned so she was completely facing him. Din was no more than a few feet away from her. He had opted to keep the helmet off, though he held it close to him, resting comfortably on his hip. He could stop pretending that he had never broken the Creed. Helmet on or off, it was as good as any. This time, he needed to see Bo-Katan eye to eye, as Bo-Katan never could to many others, it had seemed, even as she was of the fold who shed off helmets at prerogative.</p><p class="p1">There was a silent moment shared as they measured each other’s wills, but without aggression or even anger. Din took a second for his gaze to rest on Bo-Katan’s bandaged hands. She was still recovering from the burns inflicted upon her by the heated beskar spear. How a mighty weapon had turned on her so quickly.</p><p class="p1">“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan began, her voice firm but surprisingly melancholy.</p><p class="p1">“Lady Kryze,” Din returned. It brimmed with subtle authority to his own ears, inadvertently so.</p><p class="p1">“You must forgive me,” Bo-Katan continued, and these very words brought a furrow to Din’s forehead. “The words I have dealt on you during the match—they were cruel. They were unfair to you. When Raald—your father—defected from Death Watch, long ago, all ties were cut. It was as if all debts were paid and forgotten, as though the person never existed. Raald’s parents had affiliated with House Kryze. As you now know, he was born on Mandalore. But that’s over and done. You aren’t beholden to House Kryze in any way. Now that you are Mand’alor—it is House Kryze who is now beholden to <em>you</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Din was stunned, and as his face was bare, he had no idea if such an expression registered in any way. He was still getting used to the manner of how his bare-faced expressions drew reactions from others. But Bo-Katan was looking at him with an intensity that could be described as subdued remorse.</p><p class="p1">Din found the sense to acknowledge her words with one, brief nod. If, in any way, her words were sincere now and would remain so, only seasons would tell. This appeared to be too delicate a time to accuse her of her usual brazen deceptions. He had no inclination to drop the ball of goodwill if this was a chance to mold it.</p><p class="p1">“I apologize as well,” Din confessed, voice steady even as his breath hitched. “My own words to you were no better…”</p><p class="p1">“But you were right,” Bo-Katan interrupted, but only because Din had faltered, and some words needed to be said on her part.</p><p class="p1">“What do you mean?”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan scoffed, but it was small and almost secret, as though directed on herself. “<em>Selfish. </em>You’re right. For a while, I had only thought of my own glory.”</p><p class="p1">Din paused for long moments. He wasn’t certain how to take this revelation, but he needed to hear her matter on this, by all means.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan’s eyes, as green as grass after prosperous rain, ceaselessly bore into Din. “Raald was an admirable man. He was precise, efficient, a man of few words, but every word that came out of his mouth had reason and purpose. He never squandered, never felt sorry for himself.” A ghost of a smile played on the woman’s lips. “Now, in the short time I’ve known you thus far, Din Djarin—it appears that the fruit may not have fallen far from the tree. You are holding up much better than I thought.”</p><p class="p1">An involuntary shrug moved the broadness of Din’s shoulders. “Then it seems that I’ve been raised well.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” Bo-Katan quickly agreed, a habitual smirk dusting the corners of her mouth. “You were. And you must know that I envy you in many ways.”</p><p class="p1">The same ghost of a smile played on Din’s lips. “With all due respect, Lady Kryze, if you’ve been truthful to me about things just as you are towards me right now, we wouldn’t have been in this scrape in the first place.”</p><p class="p1">A crease of amusement formed on Bo-Katan’s expression. “My formative years have been spent with Death Watch. It had been instilled in me to always put glory at the forefront. Under Pre Vizsla—“</p><p class="p1">The familiar last name nudged at Din. Was Paz in any way related to that man? He had so many questions, and too many answers to gather. But one day at a time.</p><p class="p1">“—the training of both my body and mind was ruthless. Death Watch showed no mercy to the weak, and prized strength and power above all else. The idea attracted any Mandalorian devoid of action and purpose during a tedious period of peace. However, as time passed, years after the Clone Wars, the very thing Death Watch abhorred was the very thing we have all taken for granted. Keeping the peace could probably be a task greater than waging war. But we could not have known. We all learned the hard way…” Her voice dropped to a feather-light whisper, and it was only the ubiquitous acoustics of the canopy which allowed Din to hear what she had to say. “Satine knew how peace was as challenging as war, but she had picked her side and stuck to it till the end.”</p><p class="p1">“Satine?” Din’s own echoing whisper filled the air.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan seemed to snap back to herself upon the mention of the name by another voice. “My older sister. Satine Kryze was the late duchess of New Mandalore.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded, suddenly remembering. “Axe Woves had mentioned her and of New Mandalore, but only briefly.” Upon noting how one of Bo-Katan’s brows raised, Din added quickly, “Don’t be angry with Axe. This was all upon Lady Vauss’ behest. She thought it best for me not to enter the arena knowing so little of what I was truly fighting for.”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan’s posture seemed to relax somewhat, even as she may have noted the slight jab in his last statement. “Lady Vauss is a good woman. I had been too stubborn to listen to her before… as all Mandalorians can be stubborn. Nonetheless—she will be there for you, now that you’re set to lead us. Perhaps you’ll fare infinitely better than any of us had in hard-pressed attempts to unite the Mando’ade. You know how much I’ve failed. I can never be as great as the leaders of old—hell, I can never be as great as my sister, even if her policies have rendered our people helpless in the end. But all that concluded when she died. For a while, it had been up to us to rebuild and re-establish the Mandalorian spirit which had been smothered by years of Pacifism. Even then, we’ve done a terrible job. I…I have done a terrible job.”</p><p class="p1">Din had to get to the heart of this, somehow. Bo-Katan didn’t seem like one to debase herself to the point of flogging; then again, had she always been so hard on herself, but had never revealed this vulnerability to any one in any form?</p><p class="p1">“<em>Haar dralne ven alorir</em>,” Bo-Katan recited, as though she were recalling a lecture from rote.</p><p class="p1">“Pardon?”</p><p class="p1">Din knew the Mando’a tongue and what it meant, but its true relevance was lost to him if Bo-Katan had any context for it. She may have read his confusion, as she quickly bridged her words with:</p><p class="p1">“<em>Only the strongest shall rule</em>. That was Pre Vizsla’s motto. But he had proclaimed it to us so many times in Galactic Basic that its essence had become lost in translation.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Alorir</em>,” Din dared to explain in his usual quiet gruffness, “means <em>to lead</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s correct,” the fiery-haired woman assented. “It perhaps was too late when we’ve realized that <em>to rule</em> and <em>to lead</em> were actually two different things, almost as night was to day.”</p><p class="p1">Din could only hear the rattle and a hiss of words unspoken by Bo-Katan, or perhaps even the entirety of the Manda—the souls among the stars, or the unbroken spirit of the living Mando’ade enter his thoughts: Mand’alor means <em>sole ruler</em>. But did its essence come closer to being: <em>the</em> <em>one and worthy leader? </em>To <em>rule </em>was to govern. That as much was apparent for anyone seated on the throne. To<em> lead</em> was the incessant drive to guide with wisdom and authority.</p><p class="p1">A wave of dizziness swept Din for a torturous moment. His wounded side which had began to heal throbbed with a twisting pain he hoped he had all but forgotten.</p><p class="p1"><em>My father</em>, he thought. <em>Raald could do this. He could’ve done this. Not me…</em></p><p class="p1">“The Darksaber,” Din found his words to distract him, to still his quaking hands. “How did you lose it?”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan stared hard at him, completely not expecting a forthright query, and she looked thoroughly besieged that it took many heartbeats for her to finally answer. “I’ve told you that I fought in the Purge. And I lost it there.” The pain that emanated from her statement was too palpable that Din fought the urge to balk from pressing her on. But Din had to <em>know</em>…</p><p class="p1">“To Moff Gideon?”<br/><br/>But Bo-Katan remained silent, much to Din’s growing frustration.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Lady Kryze</em>, I could no longer afford to be in the dark, knowing where I am now, and where I am headed.”</p><p class="p1">The woman’s lip was tremorous. Her mouth moved with unwillingness. Yet when she spoke, her voice broke from the weight of many unshed tears.</p><p class="p1">“Is that not why the Mando’ade had lost all confidence in me, and that I have to work doubly harder—right to the barest bone, and at <em>all cost</em>—to gain their trust back?”</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t expect her words to sting, as though he were smarting from her own pain. Perhaps he carried that burden as well as she did, knowing what Naya and Alix had revealed to him in the heat of combat, and how Aikka had been far from willing to simply accept a stranger’s victory, a stranger who could be no different, or far worse.</p><p class="p1">“Anyway,” Bo-Katan’s body language belied her sorrowful outburst, and she attempted in vain to change the mood. “I need to return to Trask. Intel will arrive soon. Maybe the Imperial Remnant will cease all shipments there, knowing that we’ve always foiled their plans. But I have to be there all the same.”</p><p class="p1">It was Din’s turn to pin Bo-Katan under his unflinching gaze. “All right,” he relented after a pause.</p><p class="p1">“Koska will go with me. Maybe one of the Protectors—but they’re under <em>your </em>authority now. Axe will stay here. I’m not angry with him, and I know where his sense of duty stands. He stood by me only because I was regent, but now, there is a Mand’alor. Everyone’s sense of duty should be towards you, Din Djarin.”</p><p class="p1">“A Protector may go with you,” Din said after a second’s thought. “If you need reinforcements…”</p><p class="p1">He didn’t exactly anticipate Bo-Katan’s next move, for all he could read a warrior in a fight. The woman had raised a hand and gently—almost soothingly—laid it on his shoulder, warmly across the pauldron.</p><p class="p1">“When I said that you could never be my equal, Djarin…” she began.</p><p class="p1">“That is forgiven,” Din managed to say, before reluctance took hold on him.</p><p class="p1">“But in a manner, that is true,” Bo-Katan admitted. “You’ve reached a height I could only dream of, and you haven’t even officially began as Mand’alor. I see the looks in their eyes, looks even I had never garnered. Once distrustful and hostile—are now full of hope and supplication. Believe me, Djarin, when I say this: that for all our sakes, forge the will to hold on to the Darksaber for as long as you could, for as long as any of us <em>ever </em>could.”</p><p class="p1">With those words, they parted, but only after the vibrancy of Bo-Katan’s eyes returned, with a remarkable elation so very unusual of her. She then added, “If you call, we’ll answer. It’s the Resol’nare, and we will honor it.”</p><p class="p1">In Din’s mind, with half a broken heart, he formed the words, clinging still to the sovereignty they deserve: <em>This is the Way.</em></p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*baar’ure - medics</p><p>Note 1: I imagine that Mandalore got the same treatment as the Razor Crest (RIP, ol’ girl) on S2Ep6, and the Crest was totally decimated with one shot. Now imagine a thousand of those on an entire planet. Gaaah. Pretty terrifying to say the least. :( That’s my personal interpretation of the Night of a Thousand Tears, and I had Naya present that notion to you guys. Ehehe. </p><p>Note 2: I’ve been confused for a while and had mistaken “The Night of a Thousand Tears” with the day of Din’s rescue at Aq Vetina, AND also with the Great Purge itself. Quick reference to our trusty Wookieepedia says that it’s an event towards the end of Clone Wars, so as per usual, I rolled in with my own take on it, based on that info. Woohoo. *waves flaggie*</p><p>Note 3: I’m not very versed yet with Star Wars weaponry (shameful at this point, but working on it!), so the “Purge weapon” in Naya’s knowledge is something I created for purposes of advancing the story. Although researching through the Battlefront video game’s arsenal, there’s a whole lot of blasters and such with limited descriptions on paper, but the list might have the droid, er, weapon I’m looking for. I haven’t played Battlefront, either. I iz a sad potato.</p><p>Note 4: Yeaap, I hear ya folks, I know some of you would like Bo-Katan’s POV, like her own brain talking. :P But I still kept to Din’s POV. I’ve been meaning to keep Bo-Katan as ambiguous as the old gal could ever get for a while longer, BUT we will be getting a tour of her own thoughts down the road. I love my readers and I listen, and if it helps the story I’m meaning to create, then of course I’ll heed the feedback. &lt;3 I appreciate all of you, readers new and old, the usuals and the initiates. :D Don’t forget to leave kudos and feedback if you do feel so inclined. Kisses!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. "Concord Dawn Daycare"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din simply takes a dive into his first moments at being Mand’alor, with no expectations—only to end up with (possibly) very many.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A light-hearted chapter to let woes rest for a minute for our dear Din and Co. xD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 15: “Concord Dawn Daycare”</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was barely five o’ clock in the morning, by way of a standard day, and Din had arisen early in search of breakfast.</p><p class="p1">Having traveled in vast space for so long, time seemed fluid, and his sleeping patterns were all a mystery to him. He slept when he could, he got up when he needed, which was all the time. He had been, however, strict with Grogu’s routine. He didn’t know exactly how he came up with it, but as with a child of any species, they needed sleep to grow: bedtime, nap time, and bedtime again, in fine array. It didn’t matter if Din was wide awake or nodding to half-dreams at the cockpit.</p><p class="p1">Those days seemed far away, and Din felt the foreign stirrings of actual, healthy <em>hunger</em>. Now that his body had been spent to a limit, and he’d rested as much as his sanity was able, his mind was secure enough to feel its mortality comfortably again… for now.</p><p class="p1">The night before, it was Drali who brought him his dinner, and Din promptly asked where he, Emon, and all the others took their meals. The young man mentioned of a mess hall, which was by far the second largest tent in the encampment, right next to where they parked the speeders.</p><p class="p1">“Emon says he’s sorry he couldn’t see you after this morning, Sir,” Drali’s voice—far more determined and steadfast than his younger brother’s—informed him ruefully. “He wanted to come and tell you himself, but I was on shift, anyway. He’d definitely talk your ears off and I told him that you <em>can’t </em>be bothered right now. He’s to show you something tomorrow, Sir, and he’s been working hard on it, if I say so myself.”</p><p class="p1">Din hid a smile at the notion. He told Drali that it was all right, and let Emon take his time if the boy thought it an important matter to him. Drali looked as though he had wanted to say something more, and something <em>else</em>, and Din caught the youth’s hesitation from the corner of his eye. Before he could mention it, Drali bid him goodnight, and left him to further recover in much-needed sleep by his still-sore body.</p><p class="p1">He had slipped out of his personal tent and wandered through the half-slumbering encampment. Din briefly took in the sight: the grey paleness of the hour before dawn, the dryness of the air, no wind, no morning dew, not even a chill. Just stillness and semi-darkness, and not even the stars were out, and on the sky hung a bright purple quarter-moon.</p><p class="p1">It was so motionless and quiet, as though no makeshift stronghold existed at all, along with its inhabitants. Even as the sentries were on their posts and there was an occasional lull of hushed voices, the entirety of it was inconspicuous. No Imperial Remnant could possibly suspect that a growing population of Mandalorians had momentarily settled on this barren rock. At least, not <em>yet</em>… and Din knew that they needed to keep this low profile for as long as they could.</p><p class="p1">The mess hall seemed impressively large enough to hold a hundred seated Mandalorians at a time, with enough space between the long, steel tables. He puzzled at the emptiness of it, but the lights were on. One wouldn’t suspect how bright everything was inside the mess hall tent from the outside. Din heard the commotion and clanking of pots and pans at the far back, which apparently were the kitchens.</p><p class="p1">Din pondered on something for a while before wandering further in.</p><p class="p1">Behind the kitchen flap, he then beheld a curious sight of three cooks, donned with half their armor, and tied bows of huge aprons hung around their necks.</p><p class="p1">Out of habit, Din wore his helmet upon waking, and realized that he still had it on upon sneaking into the kitchens. Out of habit also, he wore his full armor, save the cloak and most of his armaments. He wasn’t off to a mission on this day (he hoped), and this was how he dressed himself down on occasion.</p><p class="p1">The cooks were busy. They hardly noticed he was even there. There was a variety of pots huge enough to boil a whole bantha calf in it; skillets smoking with fragrant meats lined the thick duraweave walls, whilst the three cooks hurried back and forth, up and down the kitchens with a marvelous sort of precision. Din was rather impressed.</p><p class="p1">“Good morning,” Din finally announced his presence.</p><p class="p1">“WHAT? Who goes there?!?” cried one of them as he stopped dead in his tracks. The man was one of the very <em>few</em> much<em> older</em> Mandalorians on the encampment. He seemed to be in his early fifties, only beginning to slightly go bald, and his once-sharp features were starting to paunch. His eyes were a very pale green that blinked as though they were perpetually stinging from tears. Perhaps it was the smoke from the stoves.</p><p class="p1">The man spotted Din, almost hidden behind the food-smoke. “And who the kriff are <em>you</em>, mister? Breakfast begins sharply at five…”</p><p class="p1">Din divertedly tapped the built-in chrono on his vambrace. “It’s two past five.”</p><p class="p1">The man’s pale green eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He hurried back to the pots, took a ladle and smacked what seemed to be apprentice cooks on each of their bare heads—a young girl and a boy, both perhaps nineteen or twenty. They both squawked in shock.</p><p class="p1">“Two minutes late!!” the head cook huffed in horror. “Get that damned breakfast out!”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, sir!”</p><p class="p1">The two young cooks, with yet more precision, held on to potholders even with their already-gloved hands and shuffled out measuredly until most of the food was out.</p><p class="p1">The head cook then turned to Din.</p><p class="p1">“Now, what seems to be your business here…?” the middle-aged Mandalorian still in his aprons demanded, but was cut short when Din had decided to take off his helmet.</p><p class="p1">The act no longer pained Din as much as it had the first number of times, and felt even strangely welcoming as it made him appear less of an <em>outsider.</em></p><p class="p1">Just as Din wished it would, the man instantly recognized him without his helmet on. Din supposed that his visage had been the main subject of the days past, especially during the ritual combat proper, when most of the moon’s inhabitants seemed to have attended.</p><p class="p1">“M-Mand’alor!” The man snapped to attention quickly, who cleanly forgot he still held a ladle and used it to issue an otherwise stately salute.</p><p class="p1">A tingle of how this was still all <em>novel </em>to Din bludgeoned at him. He fairly remembered the commands during active military duty, and this was not one of those times when such knowledge was needed save for an: “At ease, <em>vod</em>.”</p><p class="p1">The cook’s face reddened like one of the tomatoes on the basket behind him.</p><p class="p1">“Wh-what can I do for you, Sir?” the man asked, with an aching, but genuine politeness.</p><p class="p1">“What can I address you with, first of all?” Din then asked in return.</p><p class="p1">“Graz Woric, Sir,” replied the head cook. As though he got smacked by his own ladle, it swiftly came to his attention that he was still wearing his old, stained apron, turned partly away out of respect and promptly slid it of, and offered his arm for Din to grasp in greeting.</p><p class="p1">“Din Djarin,” Din offered, but the man blushed even more.</p><p class="p1">“No offense, Sir, but <em>Mand’alor</em> or <em>Sir </em>is fine. It’s… it’s been customary, I heard,” informed Graz without missing a beat.</p><p class="p1">“Very well,” Din relented, hiding his surprise. “Graz, I need to ask you a question—“</p><p class="p1">Graz gestured widely that his person was at the Mand’alor’s disposal. “<em>Anything</em>, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">“Does the menu vary from time to time?” Din was truly curious. He knew what sort of meals were served in barracks when he was still among the Tribe’s Fighting Corps. He had begun training at thirteen, straight from the <em>verd’goten. </em>A small comparison wouldn’t hurt.</p><p class="p1">“Oh,” Graz began, almost mournfully. “Sad to say, it’s been the same thing for the past few months. It’s all that can be supplied, so far. Let’s see…” Graz tapped a button on his vambrace, and a small holoprojection buzzed to life, which looked like a list typed in Mando’an alphabet.</p><p class="p1">“Porg egg omelet, fruit salad, broiled Nuna legs with oat bread, and bantha meat chowder,” recited Graz. He then grumbled, “Well, look at that. I don’t even know why I even <em>needed </em>to consult the damn list. I’ve got it all on the tip of my nose.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded once. He decided he liked what he heard with regards to the meal.</p><p class="p1">“Forgive me, Sir… but this is all there is. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, everyday since the year began. Any scoundrel who <em>dares </em>complain would get a full ladle flagellation from me,” reported Graz soon after, seriously. “Twenty to thirty lashes, depending on the offense.”</p><p class="p1">Din had never thought the day of stifled laughter would come again. In fact, his sore side ached a little from the effort. “Is this what the children eat?” <em>That</em> was really the point of his inquisitiveness.</p><p class="p1">Graz made a matter-of-fact noise. “Why, <em>of course</em>, Sir. None of that junk they’ve been <em>smuggling</em> into their tents for midnight snacking. Don’t think those rascals know that <em>I know </em>what they’ve been up to! But I’ve seen the supply run lists, rife with requests of candy and cookies. Bah. Empty sugar, those awful excuses of foodstuff. No nutritional value <em>at all</em>.” He clicked his tongue sorrowfully, along with a shake of his head. “I’ve been actively discouraging the runners to keep caving in to the children’s requests. But the brats are persistent. I suppose you could do something about that, Sir!”</p><p class="p1">Graz appeared to <em>very much</em> want to get to the bottom of this, but his authority alone had not been enough. It somehow pleased Din that the head cook was asking for his help on the matter.</p><p class="p1">“Sounds fair,” Din agreed, and Graz’s face was immediately awash with relief. “The children need to eat healthy,” Din echoed the man’s thoughts. “That’s all. I need them to be in peak physical condition when…” he paused, uncertain for a moment. “…they begin more challenging levels of training.”</p><p class="p1">“Understood, Sir!” Graz acknowledged, very proudly in possession of the fact that he and the Mand’alor were on the same page when it came to one significant thing.</p><p class="p1">Din exited the kitchen and released a breath, realizing that his nerves had somehow been lightly worked up. His first matter of the day as <em>Mand’alor</em>—and it was about the kriffing <em>menu</em>.</p><p class="p1"><em>Might as well get myself some breakfast too while I’m here</em>, thought Din, a little resignedly.</p><p class="p1">It was fifteen past five in the morning, and the breakfast-seekers were only starting to trickle in. Mostly youths in their twenties. Van and Drali were among the few early-risers—Drali himself was on an earlier shift. Din waved their salute away as they spotted him from across the hall. He was ready with his tray, and made for the long table, with the foodstuff arranged in a no-nonsense buffet style.</p><p class="p1"><em>Get only as much as you can eat</em>, a marquee sign flashed atop the length of the tables. <em>Anyone with leftovers will be apprehended</em>.</p><p class="p1">The typed-in warning was most <em>definitely</em> Graz’s idea.</p><p class="p1">Din couldn’t hold onto a chuckle any longer. He was openly in a suppressed fit of laughter and on his way to “fruit salad” when he met with the company of another Mandalorian who was reaching for the same thing.</p><p class="p1">Said Mandalorian was in a half-daze, but self-satisfied enough to be humming a low tune a little off-key. “Oh, pardon me,” said a muffled yet familiar male voice, who was bowed over the many little cups of fruit and courteously withdrew his ungloved hand when Din had got to a cup first. “Well, then, after you—“</p><p class="p1">“Alix Javell,” Din recognized the off-key humming Mandalorian.</p><p class="p1">Alix’s cobalt-blue eyes looked up, and the young man seemed to freeze for a second as he came face to face with Din. It was an even more peculiar sight as Alix had bread unabashedly stuffed halfway his mouth.</p><p class="p1">What caught Din’s eye the most, to his fleeting unease, was the almost-black line of a scar inflicted by the Darksaber on the young man’s cheek.</p><p class="p1">Alix was an unmistakable wide-eyed Tauntaun in headlights.</p><p class="p1">“S-sir!” Alix exclaimed feebly in the same muffled manner as earlier, seemingly not expecting the new Mand’alor to be here <em>at all</em>. “I—I, well, I—<em>here.</em>” Alix himself picked the best-looking cup of fruit from the rows, and arranged it carefully on Din’s tray.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you.” Din blinked a few times at all this strangeness.</p><p class="p1">“Well—I,” Alix stuttered, after forcefully finishing off his mouthful of bread quickly enough not to hold the buffet line with lengthy conversation. “I’ll be honest, Sir. Shouldn’t you be having breakfast in your private quarters?”</p><p class="p1">Din shrugged. “Honesty is nice,” he began with some good humor. “And I would like to join you, please.”</p><p class="p1">Something like a low whine of a dying Wampa escaped from within Alix’s throat.</p><p class="p1">“Of course, Sir! In all actuality, I was just going to have breakfast with… um, with Aikka and Naya, if you recall, Mand’alor…”</p><p class="p1">Din’s brows furrowed good-naturedly. “Yes, I recall, and yes, I would like to join all three of you, if you don’t mind.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, Sir!” And Alix was making some swift, frantic motions to get Aikka’s attention from a corner table—ones that appeared to be reserved for officers and Mandalorians of rank.</p><p class="p1">Din marvelled at how Aikka’s handsome dark face suddenly shifted from easygoing to sternly dutiful as he presently excused himself from Naya’s side, walked up to Alix and Din, and issued Din a snappy salute. “Mand’alor!” Aikka greeted. His towering form was indeed quite a sight, and the young man had a <em>presence</em> which made heads turn.</p><p class="p1">And those heads did <em>turn </em>as more people came in with full trays for empty bellies, having noted Aikka’s greeting to Din—and suddenly the mess hall was quiet.</p><p class="p1">Din tried with all his inner might for his own face not to flush too visibly.</p><p class="p1">“What are you waiting for, <em>gar verde</em>?” Aikka cleared his throat casually and faced the growing mess hall crowd. “Address the Mand’alor!”</p><p class="p1">“Sir!” a number of young voices piped in at once, and all saluted.</p><p class="p1">Din let out another huge breath for a second time that day. He returned all their salutes as ceremoniously as he could, tray in hand, with Alix and Aikka like startled mannequins flanking him at either side.</p><p class="p1">“At ease, at ease,” Din bellowed, waving everyone to return to whatever business they were in before they took stock of his presence among them. The mess hall was suddenly abuzz with excitement.</p><p class="p1">“This way, Sir.” Aikka guided Din to their table, and Naya stood lively from where she sat but Din stopped her before she began her own salute.</p><p class="p1">“None of that for now, please,” Din said kindly. “Let’s just have some breakfast, shall we?”</p><p class="p1">Alix, with his own quirk of being mildly agitated under inconsequential pressure, came tottering to their table with two full trays: one for him, and one for Din.</p><p class="p1">“I suppose this is all you can eat, Sir,” Alix volunteered graciously. “Else the head cook will ladle-whip us to death.”</p><p class="p1">Din surveyed the tray, and was rather astonished with how Alix had artfully set up his food, and in modest portions a grown man can consume. He didn’t miss hearing Alix’s last statement and once again, he chuckled. “Yes. Graz is <em>something else</em>. Mustn’t vex him.”</p><p class="p1">“You met the head cook, Sir?” Aikka ventured.</p><p class="p1">Then a full ten minutes breezed by; the food on each of the trays were almost neatly gone even amidst conversation. The tightly-wrung selves of Alix and Aikka shown earlier when they first encountered Din at the buffet table had all but vanished. It moved Din, however, how ardently <em>loquacious</em> these young men could be when secure in their environment—moreover, around <em>him—</em>especially knowing that they had been at each other’s necks not two days past. Naya, on the other hand, was a bit more reserved, and simply laughed at the right cues. She, however, barely said anything.</p><p class="p1">Din couldn’t force Naya to speak if the young woman wasn’t up for it, so he simply let her be as Aikka and Alix did the vivacious talking—and the jesting.</p><p class="p1">“Well, I thought,” Aikka said brightly at Din, “that you, Sir, came here to finish the job.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt some confusion. “What job?” From beside Aikka, Naya was giving Din a hint, good-humoredly making slicing motions across her neck as though to indicate <em>execution</em>.</p><p class="p1">“That’s <em>cold</em>,” Din remarked with his own good-naturedness, taking the hint, and with a small smile on his face. “I never really set myself to do that, if I could help it. Wait—is it custom?” He relayed a sprightly glint in his eye.</p><p class="p1">“Used to be, used to be!” Alix offered breathlessly, and a little nervously. “It’s ancient practice that the duel for the Darksaber was one to the death. But it’s now on the victor’s prerogative to spare their opponent if they are deemed worthy of sparing.”</p><p class="p1">“Well,” Din said expressively. “My prerogative stands.”</p><p class="p1">It verily amused him when Alix exaggerated a sigh of relief.</p><p class="p1">“What would be your sources, Javell?” Aikka gave the young widower a friendly ribbing. “<em>The Annals of Tarre Vizsla</em>, volume five, chapter seven, page fifty-six, of paragraph three?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, that’s very funny, <em>vod Eldar</em>,” Alix quipped, his cobalt blues flashing with the same spiritedness.</p><p class="p1">“The Annals of <em>whom</em>?” Din’s hearing perked even further, once again coming across that familiar last name.</p><p class="p1">There was a many seconds-long awkward silence shared by all four occupants of the table, which was instantly remedied by Aikka. “Oh—apologies, Sir, we forgot that you aren’t well-versed yet with… mainstream Mandalorian lore…”</p><p class="p1">Naya cleared her throat and took the brief respite to quietly sip her water.</p><p class="p1">“Well, you would certainly need to tell me <em>all </em>of this lore sooner than later,” Din conveyed matter-of-factly. “I—would need all three of you to convene with me at my quarters, anyhow. Some time in the afternoon today. I have to get the ball rolling with—you know—Mand’alor responsibilities and all that, and I was hoping you could all lend me some counsel…”</p><p class="p1">That sounded even more awkward than the silence that preceded it.</p><p class="p1">“Wait, wait,” Alix sounded faint, as he gestured in a circle to encompass the table’s four occupants. “The three of us—Sir?”</p><p class="p1">“You don’t seem to believe me.” Din feigned dismay.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Vod Javell,</em>” Aikka elbowed Alix a tad forcefully to knock the other Mandalorian out of his stupor. “The Mand’alor calls, so we answer.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt his face redden just a little bit.</p><p class="p1">“Yes—yes, of course! We will be there,” came Alix’s enthusiastic response. “Sir. We are honored,” the young man concluded solemnly, and Din knew that he had awakened something within the hearts of the very same contenders who had battled against him in reverence to their own personal ideals, and a fellow feeling graced itself among them, and would perhaps stay for a very, very long time.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It was not yet quite past noon when Axe Woves found himself being summoned by the Mand’alor. He was amicably met by Lady Vauss by the entrance of Din Djarin’s tent. Axe eyed the plain nature of the Mand’alor’s quarters, and he wondered if he should order it decorated in any way to indicate that their <em>sole ruler</em> resided within.</p><p class="p1">He decided against it. Din appeared to be a very private man who cared less about pomp and circumstance.</p><p class="p1">The two young Mandalorians—Van Shu’ad and Drali Krers—stood guard by the entrance, with helmets on as was required of soldiers of private class when on active shift.</p><p class="p1">Axe bore some affection towards these youthful <em>verd’ike</em>. He knew that these two barely had any <em>real</em> combat experience, and Axe guessed that this could exactly be the matter which Din Djarin wanted to address him about.</p><p class="p1">And so it was.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Ver’alor</em> Woves,” the Mand’alor greeted him, and the man was standing tall across a huge round table already readied by Van and Drali. Axe had presently received word that a bigger meeting would commence in the afternoon.</p><p class="p1">Axe didn’t know why, but he felt a strong pulse of pride for this once-stranger, once-outcast Mandalorian of another Creed who he had met on Trask. He only felt crestfallen that he, Lady Bo-Katan, and the Nite Owls had not treated him better from the very beginning.</p><p class="p1">“Mand’alor,” returned Axe, his helmet still on, and he raised an arm in brotherhood for Din to clasp.</p><p class="p1">Zia had remained outside, perhaps in deference to the private conversation he was about to share with Din. The elder may be prone to her own manner of gossip and cheekiness, but she knew her boundaries, and Axe was in respectful awe of that.</p><p class="p1">“Woves, I need you to get to work with regards to the assessment of our troops,” Din enunciated with a casualness which informed Axe that such matters were of common sense for any Mandalorian preparing for a <em>state of war</em>. The man felt a chill down his spine. Din Djarin was really getting down to business, with no time to waste. Perhaps it was even very wise. Who knew how the Imperial Remnant was faring in their own growing strength and power compared to the divided, scattered, and currently ill-equipped Mandalorian army?</p><p class="p1">“Aye, Sir,” Axe acknowledged. He produced a datapad which he had been holding on to for this very purpose, and presented Din with the needed figures. He fought the brewing concern in his otherwise smooth-as-butter drawl.</p><p class="p1">“I fear that I have to be more forthright than what—forgive me—Lady Kryze made our situation out to be,” Axe proceeded with some hesitation in mentioning a Mandalorian of rank who wasn’t in their presence. To his muted astonishment, Din’s voice was pleasantly amiable, peppered with a bit of humor when he responded with, “Well, she isn’t here to dispute any of this, is she?”</p><p class="p1">There was something of a <em>wink</em> in the Mand’alor’s tone, as the man was helmeted (they were in active conference, but things might change afterwards to put everyone at ease), and Axe continued to keep his level-headedness—and decided to smile. His own head was cocooned by his helmet, anyway.</p><p class="p1">This Din Djarin was “getting on his nerves” in a splendid way, and even Axe was pleasantly surprised.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps he was even liking the new Mand’alor, <em>admiring</em> him in a way he could not find himself to do so for Lady Bo-Katan. Axe didn’t even pay heed to the guilt which threatened to cling itself to him with each thought that <em>criticized</em> the former regent of Mandalore.</p><p class="p1">“Ah—yes, Sir,” Axe replied with the same amiable tone. “Anyway,” he turned serious with a metaphorical flip of a switch. “There’s certainly still too much left to be desired. On this moon, the population had reached a meager one thousand and ninety-seven occupants in just slightly under a year. Clans had to travel here in small fragments, as too huge a number would draw attention from anyone, whether Imperial or New Republic. We had to keep operations hush on all fronts. I think at the moment, our business as Mandalorians should first remain our own.”</p><p class="p1">“I agree with that,” Din intoned. “Please continue.”</p><p class="p1">“However, more are on their way. As I mentioned before, many are still scattered across the sector and the galaxy, simply awaiting news. The ones who had sought refuge in the Core Worlds are even more reluctant as they had integrated with society there, as to not arouse suspicion in broad daylight. Not <em>dar’manda</em>, of course. They had never forsaken their Creeds. Just safely disguised in a manner. Anyway,” Axe cleared his throat with some unease, “it’s quite obvious that most of our possible fighting force are currently comprised of young people. I know—I know… that the Mand’alor is very mindful of this arrangement. Lady Vauss has relayed as much. I must be frank with the numbers, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">“Never apologize for being frank, Woves,” Din said in quietude. “By all means, please be sincere and disclose everything.”</p><p class="p1"><em>By the Maker,</em> Axe pondered. Din Djarin was still quite a mystery, despite chancing upon records that his <em>buir</em> was once Death Watch who had defected. He knew that Raald Movan had been Lieutenant Commander before defection, a rank which the man had stripped off himself, starting from scratch, it seemed, after converting to the Children of the Watch. Did the late <em>Ver’alor</em> <em>Al’verde </em>Movan pass any of his leadership qualities to Djarin? Axe, of course, hoped he had.</p><p class="p1">“We currently have a ratio,” Axe continued reverently, “of eight children per adult. However, if we take into account the young Mandalorians of ages thirteen to seventeen, the ratio would now then be five children to one adult. It’s rather disproportionate. Most of our facilities have been re-organized to accommodate these children. You can say that—“ and Axe let out a hearty chuckle, and did not feel judged at all for doing so, under Din Djarin’s visored gaze, “—we’ve markedly turned into the <em>Concord Dawn Daycare.</em>”</p><p class="p1">As he had surmised, Din shared in this amusement, and the other man chuckled along with him. “So it seems,” the Mand’alor concurred affably.</p><p class="p1">However, just as Din Djarin revealed a light-hearted side of him, the man quickly withdrew once more to all contemplative stillness.</p><p class="p1">“Damn it,” Axe heard the Mand’alor say under his breath after a moment, distorted somehow by the voice modulator. “That’s more than enough for us to know that we have so much work ahead of us.”</p><p class="p1">“Well,” Axe said, in attempts to ease some worries. “If you need even more frankness, Sir, with you now at the helm of things… it seems that… we’d be actually be getting somewhere much farther, and in a faster pace.”</p><p class="p1">“Huh,” Din said in response, almost devoid of emotion, and Axe wondered if the man had wanted to hear that last bit of assessment after all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*vod - comrade; brother/sister<br/>*gar verde - you soldiers<br/>*verd’ike - private (rank of soldier), plural form.<br/>*Ver’alor - Lieutenant<br/>*dar'manda - no longer Mandalorian/"not Mandalorian"<br/>*buir - parent; father/mother</p><p>Thought I’d share the ages of more OC’s here to help a bit with visualizing them. :P</p><p>*Van Shu’ad - 21 y/o<br/>*Drali Krers - 24 y/o<br/>*Alix Javell - 32 y/0<br/>*Aikka Eldar - 28 y/o<br/>*Naya Tyrr - 32 y/o</p><p>Hope you enjoyed this little update! Thank you so much for reading, and have you all a wonderful weekend, and to some of you, a lovely Spring Break. Yup I know we still have Friday to go through LOL but TGIF! Do leave some love via kudos and comments if your heart calls to do so (how dramatic. :P) Kisses. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Home of the Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Din holds his first meeting with his fledgling council, facing more than his initial doubts and fears.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did I mention “slow build” in the tags? *tears* Here we go! :’D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 16: Home of the Soul</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“There it is,” came Alix’s pensive voice in the gloom.</p><p class="p1">The recesses of the tent had been darkened for the meeting, so the holoprojection was the only hauntingly fluid source of light and core of attention.</p><p class="p1">“Where’s <em>what</em>?” Din inquired of Alix, whose eyes lay fixated on the holoprojection, a three-dimensional rendering of the Mandalorian sector that shimmered aquamarine around the cracks of air and faces of all those present.</p><p class="p1">Except at that moment, it was just Din and Alix in the tent, as well as Van and Drali. The two youths were still rummaging at a far end of the tent, making room for more occupants by moving around some of Din’s belongings: a mere cot, a table, his jetpack, and some fresh change of clothes for sleep. Din still felt he hardly belonged here, even as his jigsaw piece of a presence was inching its way to the puzzle. He had not brought any notable possessions with him (save the spear and Darksaber), and anything he owned for a short while hereafter would be donations from kind and willing folk. Interesting for someone of his status, but everyone was making do—and so should he.</p><p class="p1">Alix, as though underwater, moved a hand and pointed at a round, tiny glowing sphere on the holoprojection, which rippled lightly at the young man’s touch. “Mandalore,” he replied, with dejected wistfulness.</p><p class="p1">Din looked at that ghostly dot which Alix’s finger rested upon for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“Home,” Alix concluded in an even lower whisper, as if he had forgotten that there were others with him.</p><p class="p1">Din nodded, almost to himself.</p><p class="p1">He and Alix chose to keep their helmets on as they waited for the others. Earlier that noon, Din had sent Axe to gather further assessment on their ships, on the state and extent of their weapons supply, on available medicines, and so on… Din needed to keep himself abreast with all things, great and small, to bring war upon a sleeping giant. Even as a remnant, the Empire would consider itself nothing less of a leviathan, especially with what he had witnessed with Moff Gideon so far—and he was only a part and parcel of the remnant.</p><p class="p1">The shuffling at the back of the room stopped. Din slightly turned his visor to glance at the also-helmeted Van and Drali, his hardworking squires at the moment, who ceased work so they could steal a small glimpse of their homeworld again, even if it was just a dot on a holoprojection.</p><p class="p1">They both seemed to have caught Din noticing their idleness, and immediately proceeded to keep setting the space up diligently.</p><p class="p1">Din’s gaze fell underneath the helmet. He never had been to Mandalore, and never had a home planet growing up, save for the village of Aq Vetina; even as he stood here, he could hardly remember anything. He had shut out the memory of his parents’ faces and his childhood home for a while, only for these memories to re-emerge in recent years.</p><p class="p1">Even as he wanted to, he still found struggle to empathize with the three occupants of the tent, who were dazed and yearning at the thought of once again returning to a planet which had been a cradle to the Mandalorian identity.</p><p class="p1">Alix had been overly punctual, and Din found himself intrigued into welcoming the younger man’s presence before the others arrived. Was this man not the historian, as Zia cheekily informed him?</p><p class="p1">“<em>Manda’yaim</em>,” Alix spoke again after a few moments. While his eyes remained fastened to the holoprojection, his voice sounded more grounded again.</p><p class="p1">“The what?” Din knew that this was only beginning of an endless trail of questions, and he believed that a huge bulk of them would be directed towards Alix—if he knew more of history than most.</p><p class="p1">Alix blinked rapidly as though to clear a fog in his brain, and looked lively as he sought Din’s helmeted visage in the pale teal half-darkness. “Oh—oh forgive me, Mand’alor… I-well. It’s another name for the planet Mandalore. I know as much that you have never been to the homeworld. Understandable. Many haven’t, actually. There are more planets on the sector other than <em>Manda’yaim</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“Manda’yaim?” Din repeated, allowing the syllables to form carefully on his lips. “Home of the Manda? Doesn’t it sound a little redundant?” He meant no contempt or malice—as always, he was only genuinely curious.</p><p class="p1">Alix was thankfully receptive of Din’s curiosity and hadn’t skipped a beat in further explaining, doing so with even a hint of pride. “Well, the Manda does mean the <em>spirit</em>, the soul of the Mando’ade. <em>Home of the Soul</em>, maybe. A little more poetic with the translation but… well…” Alix was trying to hold himself together.</p><p class="p1">For a start, the young man had shed most of the mourning colors on his armor, and was beginning to repaint some parts in white. Little by little, his grief may peel away, in time, like all wounds.</p><p class="p1">“You must pardon me for saying so, Sir. That’s why we’re having quite a bit of trouble just letting the memory and existence of Mandalore go. We’ve heard all those stories about it being <em>glassed</em>, and as it was barely uninhabitable then, it is more so now. Even the bio-domes were reported to have shattered. Perhaps gone to nothing but ashes. Yet we cling on, hoping that… it’s not over. That it’s still far from over.” Alix shrugged. “Or I can only be speaking for myself…”</p><p class="p1">Once more, the shuffling of the silent two youths behind them. Din huffed. It appeared that Alix’s presumption of their desire to reclaim Mandalore even in its sorely hapless state was shared by Drali and Van—and many, many more.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Home of the Soul</em>,” Din echoed the planet’s sobriquet faintly, and with the modulator, it sounded like a static buzz of fragmented poetry.</p><p class="p1">The rustling of footsteps outside indicated that more have arrived, and Din’s two aides swiftly made their way to the tent entrance to open the flaps wide for anyone who would be coming in.</p><p class="p1">Alix straightened himself out, clearing his demeanor from that minute of sentimentality.</p><p class="p1">“Drali, Van,” Din called to the two youths.</p><p class="p1">“Sir!” they replied in rapt synchronicity.</p><p class="p1">“When everyone’s in, I’d like you two to stay and attend the meeting as well,” Din requested, conversationally, so the the aforementioned young Mandalorians exchanged quick, puzzled glances before snapping a salute in obedience.</p><p class="p1">Soon, the personages whom Din had called to this meeting filed themselves into his quarters: Aikka, Naya, Zia, and Axe, and a hooded figure who Din recognized wore the Protectors’ uniform. The figure still wore armor underneath, painted an eye-pleasing seafoam blue and pale gold.</p><p class="p1">The Protector bowed before Din before positioning himself a few paces behind him. While the cloak and hood obscured most of the figure, Din can tell that the Protector was a man, perhaps yet another of the many young people settled on this moon.</p><p class="p1">Zia bowed as well, while Aikka, Naya, and Axe saluted him, poised and sharp, in deference to Din’s encompassing authority.</p><p class="p1">Din’s heart drummed heavily in his chest. He may not get used to it for a while, but his sense of duty always asserted itself; only this time, he was not a follower, not even in his lonesome where he kept to his own rules out in open space: He was an <em>Alor</em>. A leader.</p><p class="p1">A <em>supreme leader</em>, at that, for all intents and purposes.</p><p class="p1">Din waited a few ticks of the chrono before he slowly, ceremoniously slid his helmet off.</p><p class="p1">The others immediately followed, in automatic response to when someone of higher rank shed their helmet first. Only Zia remained un-helmeted throughout, although she wore her full armor. The elders’ “full armor” wasn’t as pin-polished and complete as those not of her own earned status, and bore solemn dignity in the pieces the elders did wear.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you for being in attendance,” were Din’s first words in his first meeting as Mand’alor. Zia stood beside him, yet was close enough for Din to spot a fond, motherly smile forming on her mouth, from the corner of his eye. Perhaps she thought his approach too… <em>courteous</em>, like a schoolboy in class?</p><p class="p1">“Sir,” came the unfaltering reply from each of the attendees.</p><p class="p1">Din felt very foolish with his pronouncement afterwards, but he needed to begin <em>somewhere</em>, and somewhere was: “In all honesty, I—I have <em>no kriffing idea</em> where to begin…”</p><p class="p1">A nervous, awkward hush filled the room, but it was Alix who saved the moment by reminding Din of the very words he had briefly conferred the young man with, earlier in the mess hall. “A good start, Sir, if you ask me,” blue-eyed Alix remarked. “<em>Honesty</em> is good.”</p><p class="p1">There were traded glances of more awkwardness, but Din found ballast in Alix’s push for honesty. That was something he had not been afforded many times in his life, Din thought sullenly, not only by Bo-Katan, but by his own Tribe. Although <em>betrayal </em>was something far from his mind—if he hadn’t felt that he betrayed them first by laying his Creed down for his child.</p><p class="p1">“That’s what I’ve been meaning to let you all know,” Din began, finding metaphorical footing as he looked at each of them in the eye, one after another with each word he spoke. “I came here not knowing many things. The lore, the nature of Mandalorians possessing more than one Creed, and that there are many, and not just the Way. The history—“ he stole a look at Alix, and like a cornered moth, Alix stood very still. “The collective struggle after the Purge.”</p><p class="p1">He thought he saw Naya flinch at his last words, and Din had a faint notion why. Naya, the one who possessed a <em>clinical</em> eye, may have seen his medical records as delivered by the med droid. For a moment, Din almost felt the pain of his old wounds, the scar tissue like throbbing claws around his lungs and heart.</p><p class="p1">Their silence propelled him to continue. “I’m not even going to hide my ignorance on these things. But I’m expecting each of you to fill me in on every single matter that needs attention, that needs to be learned. I’m putting my full ignorance on display with the trust and assurance of your help… if you’re so inclined to give it.” He didn’t know why he said the last part, as he could have very well <em>ordered</em> them to do so, as the very lives of the Mando’ade depended on it—but he had only come as far as <em>requesting</em> their cooperation.</p><p class="p1">To Din’s utter relief, as he had shed all pretense and had willfully opened himself to harsh judgment once again, which had been far from a pleasant experience (and at the expense of Emon’s dire faith in him)—Aikka, Naya, Alix, Axe—the young Protector and his two aides, and Zia, in her calm, anchoring manner, all held their fists to their hearts and lightly beat the armor upon it once. They all nodded with a simultaneous, “Elek, Mand’alor!”—not ear-shattering, but full of quiet conviction that surpassed the most silent of storms.</p><p class="p1">There were no chairs in the meeting and everyone was free to look at another straight in the eye, but Drali had politely offered a chair to Zia, which the elder graciously took with a reverent nod from Din. However, the subject first put forward was:</p><p class="p1">“How’s the morale,” Din turned to Axe, or to anyone among the circle who had the answer, “among our people right now?”</p><p class="p1">Axe did feel obliged to place all known information forward. With a sigh, he began: “You can guess, Sir, that a child’s little sand dune would have reached the higher peak than what we have at the moment.”</p><p class="p1">Din returned the sigh. “What are we working with?”</p><p class="p1">Axe folded his arms after tapping the side of the holo-console, so that a few parts of the map blinked. The planet-dot Mandalore remained steady.</p><p class="p1">“I can’t give exact numbers yet,” Axe relayed in his accented drawl. “Apart from the thousand we have here… scattered here, and here,” Axe drew a hand across the blinking dots. “maybe another thousand or so. In the Core Worlds, we only come in the hundreds.”</p><p class="p1">Aikka was shaking his head, and needlessly spoke the thought brewing in their minds: “Too few of us. There are simply<em> not enough</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded in agreement, his eyes downcast. “I know those numbers are not complete. Hopefully they’ll grow, of course, in time. Many too reluctant?”</p><p class="p1">Zia was the one who answered. “Many too<em> inexperienced</em>, Mand’alor,” followed by the unspoken understanding between the elder and Din. How many teenage soldiers were out there, perhaps under the care of a seasoned survivor or two, aimless with their training, in desolate anticipation, looking towards a better sun to fill the horizon through a fractured lens?</p><p class="p1">No Mandalorian was supposed to be an orphan. Raising young—foundlings or otherwise—had always been communal effort, even as a child would have a <em>buir</em> responsible for their individual well-being. Din knew now of this as something not unique to the Tribe, but across the culture.</p><p class="p1">“Who trains them?” Din launched his array of inquiry. Once again, he thought: how could Bo-Katan leave all this in shambles? He couldn’t help the accusatory sting towards the Mandalorian monarch. Zia had told him that Bo-Katan tried what she could—if Din had always been in her shoes, however, could he himself have done any better from the very start?</p><p class="p1">He didn’t even know how to get any sort of ball rolling at the onset.</p><p class="p1">“Veterans of the Purge, but many of them have sustained debilitating lifelong injuries.” The table was open for anyone who could give answers, and more voices joined other than Axe’s.</p><p class="p1">“State of munitions?”</p><p class="p1">“Low. Mostly stolen from the Remnant, so are of Imperial-make, not Mandalorian-made.”</p><p class="p1">“Ships?”</p><p class="p1">There was a lengthy silence.</p><p class="p1">Din held a moment’s discomfiture at bay. “By the Maker, we need ships. We need starfighters, pilots for the starfighters—we need a <em>damn fleet</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“We need an entire Navy.” Axe formed this necessity to Din.<br/><br/>Din nodded. “We need a force that could go against their Destroyers.”</p><p class="p1">Axe was the one who spoke again, as he knew the current answers. “Two Gozanti freighters, and the light cruiser. Hardly all the fleet we need.”</p><p class="p1">“I must interrupt,” Alix called as politely as he could, which reminded everyone—and perhaps, with Alix himself hardly realizing—that the young man was of a noble House, but his breeding leaned towards more of scholarly than soldierly. “But how has the remnant even grown since their so-called… fall?”</p><p class="p1">“A fair question,” Aikka agreed.</p><p class="p1">Din felt he needed to somehow answer this one. “There was a remnant on Nevarro. A remnant on Morak. A remnant on Trask. Zealot sympathizers on planets like Corvus.” His blood suddenly grew cold at the thought, which he had not taken the luxury to piece together in his days occupied with the questing for Grogu’s return to his kind.</p><p class="p1">“They are seemingly convening into power again,” broke in Naya’s full and deeply melodic voice, ponderous and contained. There was hardly any of the brazen fire which Din had encountered in the arena. “And if you must know, Mand’alor… we are out of bacta. We need bacta…”</p><p class="p1">Her eyes met Din’s, and just as Bo-Katan had said, there was weighted supplication in her eyes. For someone as proud as a Mandalorian, stepping forward with looks of entreaty where even a small shard of hope could not pierce through—</p><p class="p1"><em>Keep your head up</em>, Din prodded himself, forcing his breaths to even out. <em>You’d need to keep your damn head up, Djarin, you idiot. You numbskull.</em></p><p class="p1">He didn’t even know why he was beating himself up so cruelly in his mind. Did he expect everything to fall into place, all answers readied for him like a dinner party, everyone set in hurtling themselves to war with a wave of his hand? Maybe Bo-Katan could expect that much, with the chafing impatience and antipathy she had displayed with regards to their dire circumstances.</p><p class="p1">Din knew they couldn’t possibly afford to rush… but why did he <em>feel</em> the <em>urgency</em>?</p><p class="p1">Perhaps—perhaps the answers would come in due time, as with all things.</p><p class="p1">“And the beskar…?” Din unconsciously draped a transient touch on his own cuirass.</p><p class="p1">“Scattered across the galaxy, lost to the underground, among criminals, among the Guild, and even among honest folk too afraid to oppose the remnant in trade,” Axe offered truthfully, and he made little effort to hide his morose worry.</p><p class="p1">An oppressive, prolonged hush filled the tent.</p><p class="p1">“We adjourn for now,” Din finally announced, wrestling with the despondence furtively eating at them all. His voice betrayed him. It cracked like a shell, and before another hush attempted to drown their sorrows, everyone fell to a manner of motion to keep the stillness at bay.</p><p class="p1">However, none left his presence, and Din knew that they had matters to discuss with him individually. He gestured to make it known that he’ll attend to them all, but he’d need to speak with Axe first, quickly.</p><p class="p1">The two men spoke in low whispers.</p><p class="p1">“Woves,” Din said, “how many officers tendered resignations before the match?”</p><p class="p1">There was a twinkle in the other Mandalorian’s eye. “The boy… Emon. He told you?”</p><p class="p1">Din nodded with a small, understanding smile. “Did you tell him to tell me?”</p><p class="p1">Axe stifled a chuckle. “No. But I’ve known the Krers a while. Emon is very perceptive, as you probably already know. If he’s overheard, he’d remember each word. Every single detail.”</p><p class="p1">Once again, from the corner of Din’s eye, he saw Drali shift restlessly. The youth must have caught his brother’s name in the conversation. Din would get to Drali’s own perspective, eventually.</p><p class="p1">“Eight officers had resigned, Sir.” Axe returned to the matter at hand.</p><p class="p1">“Did they feel everything was hopeless?” Din needed to be straightforward. He could do diplomacy, but it admittedly was not his strongest suit, given that he’d rather <em>not talk</em> in all the jobs entrusted to him in the past.</p><p class="p1">Axe had comprehended between the lines of Din’s question. “Shall I reinstate them, Mand’alor?”</p><p class="p1">Din thought for a moment. “Talk them back into it, but don’t force them. The last thing we need are unwilling captains in the battlefield.”</p><p class="p1">“Aye, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">“Anyone unwilling will be replaced. From where we’d look—we’d know the answer soon enough.”</p><p class="p1">“Understood.”</p><p class="p1">As soon as Axe filed out of the tent, a new, but unmistakably respectful voice emerged from behind Din.</p><p class="p1">“If you’ll allow me, Mand’alor—“ and Din turned to the source, which was the cloaked and hooded Protector standing in regal attention. Unlike everyone else, he had kept his helmet on. Later on, Din figured that as long as a Protector was on active duty, whether the Mand’alor himself was without helmet or within, they were to keep helmets on, in all readiness to leap in defense or attack should the Mand’alor come to any danger.</p><p class="p1">“At ease,” he told the Protector, an order temporarily relieving him of duty, so the young man slid the helmet off his face.</p><p class="p1">As Din had surmised, the Protector was young, maybe a year or two older than Drali. The youth had dark blond hair with tinges of auburn, and his eyes were blue—not a mesmerizing, almost anomalous deep blue like Alix’s, but pale and unassuming. He was about Din’s height, and unlike Drali who still kept most of his boyish features, the Protector’s face was angularly handsome, with a thin, shapely nose; he was clean-shaven but the faint outline of a regrowing moustache outlined his upper lip.</p><p class="p1">When the Protector’s eyes met his, Din saw the sadness, yet the eagerness in them to do his part in the still-growing war efforts to regain Mandalore.</p><p class="p1">“Your name, and Clan?” Din found this the customary greeting to draw out any sense of duty towards the cause.</p><p class="p1">“Dranne Rau, Sir. Clan Rau, of the Protectors.”</p><p class="p1">“Rau?”</p><p class="p1">It was Aikka, who had inadvertently come across the conversation. The tall, imposingly-built young Mandalorian gave a swift, penitent bow. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt…”</p><p class="p1">Din, however, saw past Aikka’s supposed rudeness and wanted to hear his motive. “You know of their Clan?”</p><p class="p1">The youth named Dranne and Aikka briskly exchanged looks before the former allowed the latter to answer for him. “His uncle is Fenn Rau, Sir. I know you may not have heard of him yet, but he had joined the Rebels in their fight against the Empire. Fenn Rau was also once a Protector, but without a Mand’alor on the throne then, their nature had been drifting.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s attention turned to Dranne, giving the floor to the young man to speak his piece.</p><p class="p1">“It’s true, Sir. House Eldar had been in good terms with Clan Rau as the rebellion grew, although House Eldar never participated in the rebellion. Most of Clan Rau hadn’t participated as well. My uncle acted on his individual decision, and did not necessarily speak for us all.“</p><p class="p1">“<em>Did</em>?” Din caught the detail. “Is your uncle… still around?”</p><p class="p1">Dranne heaved a tremulous sigh, as if the next words he uttered in his robust baritone were some of the ones he himself had trouble believing in. “He’s… missing in action, Sir. Ever since the Purge. No word for over five years. He may have been killed in action. In all truth, Mand’alor—many have been missing in action. Fought and never surfaced, but have not been confirmed dead…”</p><p class="p1">Din felt his heart swell against his better judgment. “So he may yet still be alive, like many others. Perhaps wise enough to remain in hiding, to conceal our real numbers.”</p><p class="p1">Dranne issued a small, resolute nod to Din. “We <em>all </em>wish that, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">“Maybe they’ll surface sooner than later,” Din assured the young man… even if he tempted fate with that assumption. In his heart of hearts, Din did <em>wish</em> it, as possible survivors of his once-Covert, his beloved Tribe despite all that had transpired, could be among those in hiding, and in <em>waiting.</em></p><p class="p1">“Yes, Sir,” said Dranne.</p><p class="p1">“What did you want to speak to me about, Dranne?” Din eyed Aikka from his periphery, and the taller youth had both hands placidly knotted behind his back, feigning excellent manners after his interruption.</p><p class="p1">“Sir, you mentioned of the need for starfighter pilots,” Dranne ventured. “I’m a trained and experienced pilot.”</p><p class="p1">Din held his breath, not expecting this bit of good news, somehow. “Experience from?”</p><p class="p1">Dranne kept his gaze steady. “I flew a Kom’rk in the Purge. It was my assigned vehicle. I had helped deploy troops across the sector, Sir. I was there when my uncle…” he stopped short.</p><p class="p1">“Go on,” Din prodded the young man to continue, not ungently.</p><p class="p1">“…when my uncle’s Fang Fighter crashed on Mandalore, under heavy fire. However, he relayed a comm soon after that he survived the crash… and then <em>nothing</em>, and only because I was ordered to jump into hyperspace to escape.”</p><p class="p1">“Ordered by whom?”</p><p class="p1">Dranne’s answer was prompt. “Lady Bo-Katan, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">When Din found no further words to immediately bridge his answer, the youth went on, but with much care. “If you need my services as a starfighter pilot, Sir… I gladly volunteer.”</p><p class="p1">Din hid a relieved smile, almost a grin, on his bare face. “Did you want to remain Protector, or would you rather be relieved of duty, and be reinstated as pilot? I need someone to help train our squadrons.” <em>Wherever we could aqcuire them from</em>, he added silently.</p><p class="p1">Dranne remained respectful. Whoever Fenn Rau was, or whoever were among Clan Rau—they had raised their young ones well. “I wish to be reinstated as pilot, if it pleases you, Sir. I’d gladly train the recruits.”</p><p class="p1">“Then you’re reinstated,” Din said simply. “Report to <em>ver’alor</em> Woves in the meantime. Don the pilot armor. The Protector robes will be now issued to someone else.”</p><p class="p1">Dranne Rau—another young soldier, albeit an experienced one at long last, hefted a hearty salute to Din, already half out of the Protector cloak he had been compelled to wear under the regency of Lady Kryze.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Before the malevolent fires of the Purge and the darkness that set in, Aikka Eldar was a boy whose laughter and charm came forth easily. He had already been very tall for his age as he grew up, was extremely athletic, and was always on a lookout for any substantial challenge. However, his stature, his skill, his own discipline of body and mind and the long, arduous hours of training had remained unmatched in House Eldar.</p><p class="p1">It had once been his father, but he’s now joined the Oversoul, with thousands upon thousands of others. However, weeks and months after the Purge, drained of will and all dreams as his disheartened mother fought through her crippled state to reunite the wounded spirit of Clan Eldar—now compounded as <em>House</em> Eldar, as survivors were few—Aikka felt the Manda so far away. The Oversoul was a silent veil of cold stars around and above the boy’s shattered world.</p><p class="p1">Aikka was twenty-two when the Purge happened. He was skilled, so he had fought. But what fight he managed had been utilized more to protect and defend, rather than in aggression and attack. He had been assured by his remaining clan-mates time and again that he was nearly solely responsible for the survival of House Eldar. When his mother bequeathed leadership to him, he had no choice but to accept. The daily, full immersion into his tasks to rebuild, even for the microcosm that was his clan, would ease him out of his grief.</p><p class="p1">The grief did dissipate overtime as his mind and body grew fraught with responsibility upon responsibility. But House Eldar endured, and had been, by most means, securely transported little by little to the third moon of Concord Dawn.</p><p class="p1">However, they had lain in waiting for most of the year since settling with the other fragmented clans; most of the members were but children. Aikka wanted to rise up and latch at<em> anything</em> that would help him reach the Manda and hear the collective voice of the Oversoul. His heart ached to return to Mandalore, the birthplace of his father, his own birthplace, as well as the birthplace of his mother who had wasted away in regret for failing them all (or so in her reckoning), even as she had held up long enough for Aikka to gather his own bearings and lead in her stead.</p><p class="p1">Then came the day this stranger—a Mandalorian from a self-exiled, cult-like sect called the Children of the Watch—arrived in their midst. He had won the Darksaber in combat from one of the very demons who was responsible for the near-annihilation of the Mandalorians. How could one so disgustingly cruel be defeated almost effortlessly in combat?</p><p class="p1">But this stranger Mandalorian had all cause to keep himself from being struck down to his death. He had unwittingly won the Darksaber in symbolic combat for the rulership of all Mando’ade—for all he ever wanted was to only protect his child. To deliver the vindictive blow on the man who had<em> dared </em>lay a finger on the head of a foundling under a Mandalorian’s care.</p><p class="p1">As Aikka would have it, he unwillingly grew immediate admiration for Din Djarin but wanted to test the man’s fiber. And Din Djarin did not disappoint, to the pinnacle of remaining the Darksaber’s wielder after four opponents on the arena, and now as the <em>Mand’alor.</em></p><p class="p1">This was the same man who stood before him, Naya, and Alix as he had invited them to walk with him for the length of the early evening, up the rockly appendages of the moon, until all four were some distance away from the encampment.</p><p class="p1">It was well the hour after the meeting had adjourned, but the Mand’alor still sought their company.</p><p class="p1">For all Din Djarin was well-versed in combat, the man was openly a blank page when it came to everything else outside the Tribe he had been sworn in as a child.</p><p class="p1">He had risked the re-ignition of ire and mistrust on the account of his ignorance, so he could implore for their help and guidance.</p><p class="p1">Aikka doubted most Mandalorians would willingly place themselves on the chopping block to see if the blade was sharp enough to kill—in other words, to be the brunt of relentless criticism and humiliation.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Who the hell is this man, anyway? </em>
</p><p class="p1">Aikka saw little reason to continue with his doubts, even as the newly-minted Mand’alor had all but been in their company for hardly a week.</p><p class="p1">In privacy under the setting sun, high upon the cliffs overlooking most of the moon, they stood serenely beneath the shadowed slivers of the once-whole planet Concord Dawn overhead, like a dark, splintered hole in the sky.</p><p class="p1">The Mand’alor then looked sternly yet kindly on their faces, and in a quivering voice, resuming from where they had left off in conversation back in the mess hall that morning, he asked for the story of Tarre Vizsla.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*Elek - yes</p><p>Ohohoho! Well, so *maybe* Fenn Rau’s in there somewhere, for those who had watched “Rebels.” And YESSS yes I know… more OCs. Gawd help us. But we’re somehow reaching the tail end of all this OC cascade. xD We can only absorb too many unfamiliar names and faces of my own creation. :P BUT! The series unfortunately doesn’t have a whole lot of canon Mandos, and most maybe were in Legends (that’s why I incorporated some EU Houses in my fic), so I took the liberty to create a whole lot of them. </p><p>I’m always and forever grateful for kudos and comments, so if you feel this here fic needs a good poke of affection, feel free to give it some love, and I give my appreciation to ya’ll! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Destiny Is A Myth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The wheel starts to move for Din Djarin as well as Luke Skywalker, who respectively have their own battles to plod through.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Take heed of some warnings for this chapter, folks! Hope you enjoy this update.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>CW: Slightly graphic descriptions of violence at the end of chapter</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 17: Destiny Is A Myth</b>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Din Djarin frowned as he scanned through the scant formation of soldiers before him. Although everyone who was summoned to the clearing had their helmets on, most were hardly able to fully stand to attention, with their heads hunched a little. In the pale morning sunlight, these Mandalorians appeared more like ex-soldiers; these were definitely warriors who have seen better days. Many seemed weary, twisted like copper wire bent out of recognition.</p><p class="p1">Din’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke to Axe beside him. “We have hardly the numbers of a Company here,” he observed.</p><p class="p1">Axe nodded absently in confirmation. “Aye, Mand’alor. Unfortunately, these are the adults tallied at possessing various levels of combat experience. Two hundred, more or less.”</p><p class="p1">Two hundred seemed a lot on paper, but in reality, it was simply like filling up four medium-sized schoolrooms to the brim.</p><p class="p1">“I’m trying to be gracious enough here, <em>Ver’alor </em>Woves,” Din added sternly, his modulated voice slightly quaking, unable to hide his disappointment and dismay. “I’ve overheard back in Trask that the captured weapons on the Gozanti were to be distributed among a Division of soldiers. That’s… that’s about ten thousand able-bodied men and women!”</p><p class="p1">Axe was silent for a while. There was an unwelcome gravity to it. Din had to push further. “Woves… do we <em>have</em> ten thousand?” He didn’t mean to sound in any way sardonic, but he might as well have with the way Axe lightly flinched, as though the man were avoiding an unseen blow.</p><p class="p1">“Mand’alor—to be frank, Lady Kryze had said that bluff to… to create a ruse.”</p><p class="p1">Din sighed in the stead of the scoff he had wanted to express. “I’d thought as much.” The displeasure in his tone sounded more palpable than he intended—and he had hoped that no one else heard save the one accountable, who stood right next to him.</p><p class="p1">Axe sighed in return, and his visor turned towards Din to, indeed, acknowledge some burden of the fault. “It was partly my idea, Sir. A way to rattle the remnant…”</p><p class="p1">“By giving away false numbers at our expense?”</p><p class="p1">Axe’s voice surprisingly sounded resolute. “Unknown numbers. We don’t have a Division <em>now</em>. But… perhaps, in a few months’ time…”</p><p class="p1">“What if we don’t have a Division?” Din was adamant at having a good amount of skepticism towards the entire arrangement. It’s no secret that a great number were lost in the Purge, but he also knew that a decent number had gone into hiding. His Covert had been a testament to that. However, he no longer wished to be misled once more, as he had been misled quite a few times before.</p><p class="p1">Axe, thankfully, had caught the drift. Din wondered if Axe’s ability to predict his volatility had somehow been honed from being at Bo-Katan’s side for long. It’s a good thing his helmet shelled in his grimace.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll work with what we have, Sir, I fear. But we can still rack up those numbers. I’m quite positive.”</p><p class="p1">Din remained motionless, bidding the man to continue. Axe went on, mustering enough confidence to add a confession:</p><p class="p1">“Before Lady Kryze set out on missions to capture ships and munitions, she had me estimate the numbers of survivors which I could gather within half a year, and recruit them to our cause. Oftentimes I acted alone, and in disguise. For half a year I went with my armor concealed. I gathered numbers on the first hundred, all the way to a thousand, but many I’ve come across were lone Mandalorians, drifters, bounty hunters in search of credits—such as yourself.”</p><p class="p1">Din made certain that he kept his blank, grim visor-gaze planted firmly on Axe, hard-pressing the latter to elaborate.</p><p class="p1">“You were a lone Mandalorian out and about, who represented a few more…” Axe pointed out.</p><p class="p1">Din’s voice was low and suppressed. “I <em>had</em> represented a few more. But perhaps even<em> fewer </em>now… and even then, any survivors of my Covert are once again hidden.”</p><p class="p1">A tense silence lingered a while. Even as Din hadn’t fully relayed how he had lost his own remnant of a Tribe back on Nevarro, there was an understanding met as they were no strangers to depletion and casualty.</p><p class="p1">“Sir,” Axe resumed, his tone mysteriously gentle. “The Lady Kryze, the Nite Owls, and myself among the Mandalorian resistance… We have played around the loneliness and <em>fear</em> of our brothers and sisters. It’s terrible form, yes, but I found it a way to unite us with a purpose—to escape that loneliness, and accompany each other in our individual fears. They come because they are lonely. We call because we are lonely. The anger, the vindictiveness would come later in fuller force. And when it does… our Division will appear.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt his throat turn dry. He’d had a glimpse of that anger and vindictiveness through Naya and Alix within the confines of the arena. In those heated moments, they bared their fangs, but in a few days after it was over, it was as if Din had never felt their wrath. It was like two sides of a mirror, both reflecting the darkness and the light. Two sides in each Mandalorian awaiting the call of the Mand’alor.</p><p class="p1">It felt like razors were making their way into his chest when he spoke again. “That sounds a lot like damn poetry, Woves. But I hope you’re <em>right.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Not much was actually damnable about poetry, Din knew. The Mando’ade had lived on such poetry and songs, carried through generations. If metaphor could lift their spirits up, so be it. For now.</p><p class="p1">It was Aikka’s booming voice, as imposing as his stature, which whisked both men back to the matter at hand.</p><p class="p1">“Anyone from weapons and supplies transport?” Aikka bellowed the call to the men and women before him.</p><p class="p1">A few hands were raised.</p><p class="p1">“Pilot?”</p><p class="p1">Even fewer. Din noted that Dranne Rau was now one of them, and the young man’s own hand was held unfalteringly high. That single gesture held so much conviction that it steadied Din’s nerves a little.</p><p class="p1">“Medic?”</p><p class="p1">No hands. Din sighed. This current state of affairs will definitely bring Naya’s own morale down.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>They come because they are lonely.</em>
</p><p class="p1">“Anyone from the frontlines?”</p><p class="p1">Most hands were raised.</p><p class="p1">There was a definite change to the atmosphere, as though electricity had begun to burn through.</p><p class="p1">“Anyone with experience being in a position of command?”</p><p class="p1">Din’s ears perked at the words, and he held his breath.</p><p class="p1">Eight hands were raised.</p><p class="p1">Din turned to Axe, a little more than awestruck. He nodded to the lieutenant, who seemed to have successfully reinstated all officers who wanted to wash their hands off the grueling responsibility of leadership. Din was beginning to feel the familiarity of that weight.</p><p class="p1">Axe took some liberty to sway on his feet. Din had the impression that Axe was preening a little, and the ver’alor quite deserved it. “<em>Some</em> hope had returned,” the man said composedly.</p><p class="p1">Din didn’t quite expect the head cook, Graz Woric, to be among these once-resigned officers. From the few moments he had spent in conversation with the older Mandalorian, Din gathered that Graz relished barking out some authority. A smile returned to Din when he recalled Graz’s scrolling marquee of a threat which adorned the buffet table. It was hard to imagine a devoted head cook having been once out among the frontlines, or at least convening around the officers’ table.</p><p class="p1">But Graz Woric was among them again to officially help with command, and that mattered tremendously to Din.</p><p class="p1">Graz Woric was helmeted, but Din keenly remembered the color patterns on the older man’s armor, which had been fully revealed when he shed the oversized apron: a dark forest green interspersed with an even darker blue. Whether these colors meant duty and reliability, Din had a figurative and literal taste of that. The food was hearty and delicious, despite being repetitive fare, and Graz was more than willing to whip the children’s own eating habits into shape.</p><p class="p1">Which reminded Din: how were his stealth orders of purifying the children’s secret cupboards coming along?</p><p class="p1">He put Van and Drali in charge of that noble duty, and the youths’ absence among these soldiers standing under the sun sent Din’s ticklish bone in a small frenzy.</p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Oryn, Thava, and Emon were huddled close together on the floor of the Krers brothers’ tent, flaps wide open so the light poured in just shy away from the holovid Emon played over and over at the center of their semi-circle. The three young people made commentary upon commentary on that day’s program:</p><p class="p1">It was the footage Oryn secured of the match between Din Djarin and Aikka Eldar, and all three of their voices scrambled to narrate the moves they admired the most.</p><p class="p1">“Look at that range!” Oryn exclaimed at Aikka’s reach of his arm, as the once-stranger, Din Djarin, tried his best to evade it. “I don’t think anyone’s ever escaped <em>that</em> but the Mand’alor…”</p><p class="p1">“Hey, they’re fast!” Emon reacted next as the fighters in the crackling holovid reacted to each other’s blows. None of these blows actually met their target on the bodies, and only the sound of clanging weapons, interspersed with crispy static, filled the room. “I mean—like, Aikka nearly touched a hair on the Mand’alor’s head!”</p><p class="p1">They’ve always replayed the last part far more than the rest, when Aikka attempted a maneuver which everyone had been for certain would catch Din off-guard. But Din foresaw this in a split-second’s notice, and the match ended with the Darksaber blade a nebulous inch away from the dark young giant’s throat.</p><p class="p1">“The Mand’alor could have finished Aikka then and there,” Thava offered a grimmer perspective. “You could see Aikka almost wanting to be finished off. Just a quick flicker, though. Not very honorable to lose after being the best in his Clan so far…”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, really?” Oryn poked at the girl with a small taunt.</p><p class="p1">Thava rolled her eyes. “Really.”</p><p class="p1">“Do you wanna replay Naya’s match?” Emon suggested.</p><p class="p1">Before any of his two companions could answer, a shadow loomed at the tent’s entrance; all three startled and turned to face it.</p><p class="p1">“So what are you squirts doing in Emon’s nerf sty?” It was Drali with a wry grin. He made no pause as he directly went for Emon’s drawers.</p><p class="p1">“I was BUSY!” Emon protested. “I’ve been meaning to clean up after. And what are<em> you</em> doing on that side of my <em>nerf sty</em>, Dral?”</p><p class="p1">Oryn and Thava could only sweep their eyes across the Krers tent interiors. Drali’s side was a clean as a pin; everything folded up and in place where they should be. Emon’s side, true to Drali’s word, was as though a sandstorm, snowstorm, and an earthquake of a great degree tore a catastrophe upon it. Socks and gloves missing their respective pairs; wires and spare parts, small circuitboards and pieces of old, taken-apart datapads strewn all over. Oryn ribbed Thava and wickedly teased her that “good thing Emon didn’t leave any underwear lying around,” to which Thava hit him upside the back of his head with a vehemently whispered, “<em>Gross!!!</em>”</p><p class="p1">The Krers brothers were night and day.</p><p class="p1">Emon had turned off the holovid when he specifically noticed his older brother rummaging through the very depths of the last drawer by the far end of the tent.</p><p class="p1">“Hey!!! That’s private property!” protested the sixteen-year-old.</p><p class="p1">With a jovial smile of triumph, Drali drew back his hand, and to Emon’s stifled horror, he knew he had been exposed.</p><p class="p1">There, in Drali’s hands were three, bulging unopened packs of three types of cookies, the kind so sweet “I’d vomit and die,”—according to Drali.</p><p class="p1">“<em>I’m just going to the fresher, Dral</em>,” Drali mimmicked Emon in a high-pitched voice, which made Emon’s face turn redder than a beet (<em>I sound nothing like that!</em> he fumed). “Yeah, right,” Drali resumed his own timbre, with a dash of derision. “How many of these do you take on your way to the privy after lights out?”</p><p class="p1">Emon was dumbstruck and speechless, but the muscles in his neck tensed, as though keeping himself from unleashing a Krayt Dragon’s-worth of acid-fire on Drali.</p><p class="p1">“I was saving that!” Emon justified, feeling verily oppressed by Drali’s overstepping his boundaries.</p><p class="p1">Oryn and Thava seemed to have frozen in place, and Emon knew that they had their own little secret stacks as well.</p><p class="p1">“Van’s on it, kids,” Drali announced, glancing funnily at Emon’s two comrades-in-arms.</p><p class="p1">Thava reddened far more crimson than Emon could have ever managed, and with a squeak, she bolted out the Krers’ tent, most likely into hers. She certainly would not have Van look through her things—and still none of them had the faintest idea of what this confiscation sweep was all about.</p><p class="p1">“Uh… later, Emon,” Oryn babbled and rolled out.</p><p class="p1">Emon couldn’t come with a reply soon enough as he caught Drali crouching over to look under the bed.</p><p class="p1">“DRAL!” yelled Emon, and readying his fists with a frustatingly feeble attempt, he made at his brother.</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">Alix Javell was humming a rather grim tune off-key when he was torn off his thought-hinges as a <em>commotion</em> made itsef known at the rocky shelf across him, where some of the younger Mandalorians’ makeshift residences have been stationed.</p><p class="p1">“Another day, another racket,” Alix pondered softly to himself, which sounded strange to his own ears, as he had not even been on the Concord Dawn moon for more than a week as of this hour.</p><p class="p1">He spotted two youths running like the wind, weaving among the tents, with the younger one chasing the older one. It took a while, through Alix’s unamused squint, to recognize the speeding forms of Drali and Emon Krers. He made it a personal quest to know the names of faces he saw frequently around the Mand’alor.</p><p class="p1">“GIVE THAT BACK!” was Emon’s shrill demand.</p><p class="p1">“Can’t!” Drali responded, not a least bit winded. The older brother slowed down when he realized that Emon had run out of steam and was panting in between jogs. “Mand’alor’s orders.”</p><p class="p1">Alix blinked, <em>now</em> amused.</p><p class="p1">“Huh?” Emon choked out, certainly out of breath from the brief pursuit. But the younger one’s expression suddenly sobered upon hearing <em>Mand’alor.</em> “What orders?”</p><p class="p1">“Unhealthy snacks to be thrown out,” Drali explained, handsome young face grinning at the sight of Emon’s look of momentary betrayal. “Bad for nutrition. It ruins metabolism.”</p><p class="p1">“That doesn’t sound like the Mand’alor!” Emon reasoned out. “Just say straight out that they’re orders from ex-Captain Woric.”</p><p class="p1">Drali seemed impressed. “How’d you know?”</p><p class="p1">Emon looked impatient as tendrils of sweat poured down the poor boy’s face. “He hates us!”</p><p class="p1">Drali suppressed laughter. “No, <em>Captain</em> Woric doesn’t hate us, squirt. I mean, look at YOU! Out of shape and skinny as a womp-ferret starved out in the sun for <em>months</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“HEY, what the hell—?” squawked Emon at the insult.</p><p class="p1">“He’s told the Mand’alor so all of you little womp-ferrets can start eating better. Get yourself some gains, Em! You’re bloody <em>sixteen</em>. At least work on your biceps! And get <em>taller!</em>”</p><p class="p1">Emon looked like he was about to burst in another squalling rampage at his older brother, when Alix thought it was time to put these youngsters’ pointless quarrel to an end.</p><p class="p1">“All right there, <em>verde!</em>” Alix called out in his most authoritative elocution.</p><p class="p1">Drali was the first to recognize Alix, who had been in the previous initial meeting with the Mand’alor, and the young man’s face turned grave. The smile on his face instantly dissipated and he saluted the chemirically blue-eyed man.</p><p class="p1">“Sir!”</p><p class="p1">Emon recognized Alix as well, who had been the last contender, the one who had fully encouraged Din Djarin to declare his victory.</p><p class="p1">“S-Sir!” saluted the younger Krers, and at once, the atmosphere was a notch more peaceful… in a manner of speaking.</p><p class="p1">“You would prefer to spend that energy in training instead,” Alix advised. He hefted a knapsack-worth of datapad and datasticks over his shoulder.</p><p class="p1">Both youths nodded, and to Alix’s own surprise, they promptly obeyed. Drali immediately made his way to wherever the communal garbage bin was, a drum-full of contraband edibles in tow, while Emon’s bony shoulders folded as he plodded his way back to the tent he shared with his brother.</p><p class="p1">In the now-pressing quiet, save for the usual, hushed noises of mid-afternoon, Alix bent down a while and stared at his feet.</p><p class="p1">It rather felt funny to berate youngsters who weren’t his own, but if this was what it felt to be some kind of father figure, even if Drali was but eight years younger, Alix found it foreign yet agreeable. His face turned warm, and he swallowed hard. In the back of his mind, he was giving a bit of scolding to his small daughter in another lifetime, and she was scowling at him so profusely, ready to tattle on her mother.</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">Before the racket-defusion, Alix had just been on his way out of the Mand’alor’s quarters. He walked with a daze, not really registering the lengthy conversation that had occurred.</p><p class="p1">A couple of nights before, Din Djarin had led him, Naya, and Aikka to a more serene and secluded part of the encampment, where, he admitted, he would remain when he needed to clear his mind.</p><p class="p1">When the figurative tides weren’t too high and streneous, Alix had thought, the Mand’alor possessed a haunting tranquility of the soul which could only come from one slowly healing from a great tragedy.</p><p class="p1">Alix would know.</p><p class="p1">He had been quick to judge the stranger, compounded with rumors of Din Djarin having been raised in a cult which had renounced the mainstream Mandalorian ways. Alix quickly looked up the “Children of the Watch” on a secure browser on the moon’s very limited and heavily guarded HoloNet, but of course, he found nothing. Why would a sect so bent in making themselves disappear from the face of known Mandalorian society leave any clue of their existence anywhere, save on solid physicality?</p><p class="p1">So he ran with the rumors, even if it went against his moral fiber of seeking evidence first. The long and short of it saw him perceiving the Children of the Watch as those who held the rest of Mandalorian soceity in contempt, thus the contempt towards them was returned tenfold. A cult of Clans restoring the ancient Way—whatever ancient Way of Mandalore that was, Alix still needed to figure out, as their people’s history ran deep—unearthing their own legends and lore, and leaving out a good chunk which may pollute the perception of their known Mandalorian world.</p><p class="p1">How could someone from a buried Mandalorian sect which had taken great pains to avoid everyone else, ingraining in their young that theirs was the only Way, suddenly come in possession of the fabled Darksaber—which was as real as the sands on Tatooine—and try to <em>lord </em>it over them?</p><p class="p1">Alix had felt foolish in thinking so. Din Djarin was anything but. In fact, he even seemed to refuse the Darksaber and all the baggage that came with it. Alix had a faint idea of Lady Kryze’s manner of governance so far, one which he had thought was vague and fragmented so he wondered why she even had loyal followers at all. But Lady Bo-Katan’s orders had been the ones dispersed across the ragtag Mandalorian fold thus far, and once again, Alix ran with it.</p><p class="p1">After the deaths of his family, he had been leading life as passively as he could, which, he knew, was against the Mandalorian code of living, which was vivacious, always in consistent growth, no matter how slow. He didn’t see others being exemplary at this sort of lifestyle, so he did away with it, mincing through pain and grief.</p><p class="p1">He, somehow, found great solace in historical texts.</p><p class="p1">They weren’t much produced in physical form, as most lore had been passed through mouth and mind from one generation to another. The Resol’nare, the many great proverbs, the Code of Honor, even the most boisterous of drinking songs—all passed down through word of mouth from parent to child.</p><p class="p1">That was how it had been for a long time, even as ever-advancing technology had overrun the ancient modes.</p><p class="p1">The part and parcels of stories he had gathered as he dared go through archives of Mid-Rim planets were certainly not enough to piece stalwart, even nuanced proof of Mandalorian existence throughout the millennia. Except, most certainly, the many great wars they took part in.</p><p class="p1">He knew that the most unadulterated way to glean information of the long but significant past was from fellow Mandalorians, but so many have gone. Alix was left with the<em> now</em>, with who have been left behind—and by the Maker, Alix felt more alive than he had in years since the Purge. He was springing into step with an era where a proper Mand’alor could be installed on the throne, and, on top of that, with the greatest possibility of regaining their home planet from the filthy claws of the Imperial remnant.</p><p class="p1">And—even more like icing on a cake—he had challenged that very man who was now their Mand’alor, foolishly and fearlessly, but he needed to be part of it, even if would lose his life in the process.</p><p class="p1">It would be worth it.</p><p class="p1">It would be a great way to go.</p><p class="p1">Alix sighed, as those plans had been foiled. Din Djarin was sparing and alarmingly compassionate, even kind. The man was still a ruinous enigma.</p><p class="p1">“Who is Tarre Vizsla?” Din had succintly brought the subject forward as soon as they were steadily overlooking the rocky dunes, bathed by the light of another huge, purple moon in the sky. “You said that—there are Annals? Records?”</p><p class="p1">Aikka and Alix colored a little, both knowing full well that the existence of annals were mentioned only in jest.</p><p class="p1">Alix found himself the one talking through most of the night. “Well, Sir, there really aren’t any tangible records, so to speak. Like most of lore, the tale has been passed down since his time during the Old Republic.” Alix then dropped the bomb, and the Mand’alor had been easily captivated from then on. “It was Tarre Vizsla who built the Darksaber, as part of his trials as a Jedi initiate.”</p><p class="p1">Din veritably froze in place, his face <em>shocked</em> but very much intrigued. “<em>Vod</em> Alix, as I said before, you’d have to tell me everything.”</p><p class="p1">Alix knew that “everything” stored in his own memory wasn’t <em>everything</em>, as most historical accounts went. However, Din had been very insistent on an explanation of how the contradictory nature of a Mandalorian and a Jedi could co-exist in one person. How was that even possible? Did Tarre Vizsla know of… the Jedi powers?</p><p class="p1">“The Force,” Alix reminded the Mand’alor, and even the word sounded so bizaare in his ears. Alix had read of the Jedi Purge. Two of the most powerful echelons of all time—Mandalorian and Jedi, erased from the galaxy by a common evil which now seemed like a faint, gruesome stain. It was still there in more diluted forms, a disgustingly indelible thing.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, the Force,” Din repeated, still intent at obtaining a satisfying account from Alix.</p><p class="p1">“Tarre Vizsla,” Alix remembered saying, with Aikka and Naya sharing the same rapt attention, as though they were hearing it for the first time, “was the first ever Mandalorian inducted into the Jedi Order. As part of his trials, he created the Darksaber, which he had turned into a symbol of unity for House Vizsla, and eventually, for all of the Mando’ade. He was a great ruler. Knowing our bloody and violent history, unity among the Mando’ade seemed virtually impossible, but as the scarce but solidly-framed accounts go, Tarre Vizsla miraculously managed it. There was unity among Mandalorians for as long as he reigned. Of course, that all changed when he passed on. Once more, we all fell apart, all squabbling for power…”</p><p class="p1">From Alix’s periphery as he fell entranced with his own narration, Din was pinned in one place but his clear, deep brown eyes seemed restless, as though his mind was spinning with so many questions. He<em> would </em>have so many questions, as he was hearing all this information for the first time.</p><p class="p1">“Well, to answer your first concern, Sir—it’s not really clear whether Tarre Vizsla even renounced the Jedi Order before returning to the Mando’ade to become Mand’alor. Or perhaps, he never left the Order at all. He just… well,” Alix cleared his throat, knowing the next words he’d say were borderline superstitious rather than fact, “needed to live out his destiny.”</p><p class="p1">That drew stares from Aikka and Naya, but as the stares were curious, so were they respectful.</p><p class="p1">“Tarre Vizsla was a Jedi who returned to his people, therefore retained his Mandalorian identity?” Din abridged the information himself for Alix to affirm. The man seemed overly interested, and as to the reason <em>why</em>—Alix would very much <em>know,</em> down the road.</p><p class="p1">Din’s next question was something Alix was a tad reluctant to answer, as he knew of the inaccuracies of the many accounts about the subject: “How of Clan Vizsla itself? What has become of them…?</p><p class="p1">Another topic which the Mand’alor had been deeply interested in.</p><p class="p1">“The last of them, Pre Vizsla, had already passed…” were Alix’s words that punctuated the Vizslas’ dubious history.</p><p class="p1">That was when Din looked up at him, full in the eye, and for a man who had spent most of his life wearing the helmet as Creed, he had quickly mastered the art of the penetrating gaze which sent an unbidden chill down Alix’s spine. It was not a hostile gaze, but a <em>knowing</em> one.</p><p class="p1">This had Alix wondering if the Mand’alor knew anything of Clan Vizsla which the Children of the Watch had not been spared from. However, he could not press Din at that moment, where a sudden bout of melancholy took over the Mand’alor, and he fell to long silence afterwards.</p><p class="p1">On this afternoon, Alix left the Mand’alor’s side with his own thoughts. He trudged his way back to his own humble tent, with the sole sigil of the once-known and powerful House Ordo embellished on the side flap.</p><p class="p1">He had brought the datapad and datasticks for the Mand’alor to peruse upon the latter’s request. Alix had began a project at a snail’s pace, and it involved collecting information from present-day people, interviews and small talks of life before the Purge. He only had survivors to kindly implore this information from, and while many had been still reluctant to venture past an extremely painful episode in recent history, and to reminisce on the less complex times, he had enough stories for Din to look over in one evening. These were stories of, and by a society the Mand’alor never had the knowledge to be part of, until now.</p><p class="p1">To Alix’s swelling pride and flowing, dark enthusiasm, the Mand’alor himself encouraged Alix to conduct interviews of anyone willing to impart their accounts of the Purge itself. It was quite a bold proposal, knowing that it was still, indeed, a delicate matter even as nearly six whole standard years have passed. Would it be like picking on scabs, or would it be a manner of purification, as one’s heart softened after the shedding of tears?</p><p class="p1">He was given a noble assignment to find out. He had been appointed War Journalist, which thrilled Alix to no end. It was looking back and looking forward. He would be reporting from the frontlines should the reclamation of Mandalore begin, but as things would have it, that day could still be a excruciatingly long way off.</p><p class="p1">At least he had the opportunity to suggest that Din himself should keep a record of his own thoughts, his own account of experiences, now that he was to be a possible luminary in Mandalorian history. But Din had been too modest and hesitant at first, but eventually agreed, if there would be any way for his accounts to remain secure from prying eyes (like the remnant, for instance).</p><p class="p1">What convinced the Mand’alor more so were Alix’s words: “A record of one’s life may seem mundane, Sir, but someone down the line would read it, and find it the most extraordinary thing, as an account of these extraordinary times.”</p><p class="p1">He just couldn’t bring himself to say it yet, since Din already looked uncomfortable enough: “Great generals keep a war journal.” That would be just<em> too </em>much excitement for Din.</p><p class="p1">Alix was just contented, even at this crawling pace, that he had found his life’s purpose once more. He had quite insolently confided in Din with these sentiments. That he had never seen his daughter’s face, but he knew that it would have been very beautiful, and when the time came, he would’ve spent hell and high water fending all those suitors off. The Mand’alor’s eyes shone, sadly, but he chuckled with Alix at the wonderful thought.</p><p class="p1">“She’ll be proud,” were the Mand’alor’s words.</p><p class="p1"><em>Yes,</em> Alix thought. <em>She’ll be.</em></p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p1">Luke Skywalker sensed a growing <em>tightness</em> gripping him by the neck.</p><p class="p1">It was unobstrusive at first, like the heaviness of a strain which left as soon as it made itself felt.</p><p class="p1">But it kept growing tighter, and<em> tighter.</em></p><p class="p1">Until Luke knew that he was certainly feeling the clutches of a Force chokehold.</p><p class="p1">He snapped himself out of meditation at once, troubled more by the nature of its source rather than the strangulation itself, and unfolding his legs with heart pounding in his chest, he hurried to the stirring, sleeping form of little Grogu.</p><p class="p1">The child was twisting in his very fitful sleep. Luke closed his eyes, and with all his concentration and will that he could muster upon the barriers of an innocent yet immensely wounded mind, he tried breaking through Grogu’s nightmare.</p><p class="p1">The child’s small, three-fingered hand was raised high, and in his dark dreams, he had reached through the Force and perceived a threat that had once more introduced itself to his subconscious.</p><p class="p1">Luke was straining well enough that beads of sweat formed swiftly on his forehead, at the back of his neck, down his body. He breathed deeply and rapidly. Reaching through the Force, he carefully, <em>carefully</em> looked into Grogu’s mind.</p><p class="p1">The nightmare seemed more like a memory which the child had buried very deep within himself, that it was now compellingly letting its way out as aggressively as it had been shoved into forgetfulness, almost in an amnesiac sort of way.</p><p class="p1"><em>This was it</em>, Luke thought, heart racing, his willpower taking hold of his entire being. He was using <em>most of his strength</em> to harness the Force to look into the memories of a <em>small child</em>.</p><p class="p1">Flashes of images. Snippets of sound—but the sounds were harrowing screams… of little children.</p><p class="p1">The screams of younglings at the Jedi Temple from where Grogu had been raised.</p><p class="p1">Luke couldn’t make himself turn away, no matter how utterly painful the whole thing was playing out. The images faded in and faded away, in succession, but there was enough for him to make out a towering, hooded form bounding its way towards the younglings.</p><p class="p1">Luke knew who it was, and something gripped at his heart so strongly that he had almost broken concentration, and yet Luke held on with every fiber of his own mindpower.</p><p class="p1">It was his father, who was then known as Anakin Skywalker.</p><p class="p1">Anakin had stormed into the Jedi Temple during the Jedi Purge. <em>Order 66</em> was still a raw and tender scar to this day, and it was very much so for Grogu.</p><p class="p1">Luke saw what Grogu saw, in these flashes of memory through a nightmare. He could not place where Grogu had hid himself, but from the vantage point, he saw Anakin raise a hand so ominously that three children were at once hurled out and suspended in the air. The little ones were crying, choking on tears as well as on the Dark Side of the Force. They couldn’t speak, couldn’t call for help.</p><p class="p1">The screams were <em>everywhere</em>. This time, screams of adults as well as younglings’. Padawans and Knights alike, a roar in Grogu’s terrified ears, and Grogu was hidden and crying silently.</p><p class="p1">The child had been more than terrified. Grogu felt helpless. Grogu was <em>hating</em> himself.</p><p class="p1">He couldn’t help them. Someone guarded and wise, in desparation, had ordered him <em>not </em>to reveal himself, no matter the circumstances, no matter how bad it got, no matter the outcome.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Stay hidden. Please, stay still. Never, ever reveal yourself, Grogu. </em>
</p><p class="p1">It was a voice Luke could not place, whether it was young or old, male or female.</p><p class="p1">Anakin’s fist closed in on itself, and Luke felt faint as the <em>crack </em>of necks breaking in many places filled the void, and the younglings dropped lifeless to the ground.</p><p class="p1">Many tried to fight back. Oh, these sweet babies. These small children of toddling age, with their small practice lightsabers, trying their best, their bravest, to take on a newborn Sith Lord.</p><p class="p1">Luke was sobbing. He heard his own muffled cries. Perhaps it was Grogu’s own muffled sobbing he heard in his mind.</p><p class="p1">They all fell, one by one, two by two, three by three; heads split apart, necks splintering.</p><p class="p1">Darth Vader—he was no longer Anakin then, he had been turned to the Dark Side—slid his way through the broken little bodies, the broken bodies of teenagers and adults, gliding through the temple floors in his dark robe like a spectre, and away from Grogu’s view, and then all was black and silent, like a tomb.</p><p class="p1">Grogu was sobbing his heart out. <em>Poor child, poor little one. </em></p><p class="p1"><em>Grogu</em>, Luke eased his gentle voice into the child’s subsconscious. <em>Grogu, come back. Come back to me. </em></p><p class="p1"><em>No no no</em>, were Grogu’s words that formed. <em>No no no no no…</em></p><p class="p1"><em>Come back to me, little one, </em>Luke called. Through the Force, he enveloped the child with love. He brought the memory of his Mandalorian father with his voice, with the <em>love </em>that he willed would take hold of the child and bring him back from an endless limbo—the place teetering between Light and Dark.</p><p class="p1"><em>Come back to me, Grogu,</em> Luke tried once more, fortifying his mind and heart with the image of the Mandalorian, whose name he hadn’t known then, but his face he could remember… the man’s own tears, the man’s own encompassing love for his son, of the Force itself still half-slumbering in him. Luke felt the Mandalorian’s being burst into flames as he had let Grogu go with Luke, because that was best for the little one.</p><p class="p1"><em>I’ll see you again</em>, said the Mandalorian. <em>I promise.</em></p><p class="p1"><em>Grogu,</em> Luke ventured his last, as the strain was now beginning to take a damning toll on him. <em>Grogu</em>, c<em>ome back to your father.</em></p><p class="p1">And like how a string pulled to its very limit snapped into two, like clapping thunder, the nightmare was over.</p><p class="p1">The Jedi was pulled back to the present, to sudden wakefulness and lucidity like a cruel splash of the iciest water—under the safety of the roof of Master Yoda’s hut in Dagobah, where a soft rain had begun to fall.</p><p class="p1">Luke was catching his breath. The tears were still in his eyes. He looked down at the little one, and Grogu had stopped squirming, and his breath came evenly once more.</p><p class="p1">It dawned upon Luke that Grogu had become so attached to his father’s love, that this very love could be the <em>only</em> thing the Force could latch onto for the child to remain within the boundaries of the Light Side.</p><p class="p1">Luke ran both hands through his face, wiping tears and sweat from his brow.</p><p class="p1"><em>We will work with these attachments, little on</em>e, Luke promised once more.<em> Not against them.</em></p><p class="p1">With that promise, Grogu slept on, until morning light struck the now-stormy planet of Dagobah once again.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew. Well, then! I’m so sorry. I had to have our beloved green bean go through something like that, and our poor Luke to suffer along with him. :’(  BUT! I know that this won’t be headcanon for long lol… rumors have it that “The Bad Batch” might feature Grogu’s survival of Order 66, and we’d be presented with a canon explanation. Who knows? xD </p><p>Also, I did place Alix under House Ordo, which is a clan lifted from Legends. I’m not sure if I’d go all in with the Ordo-ness of it all (ahaha), because the Revan timeline seems a bit complicated for me at the moment. Again, we’ll see! </p><p>As always, I appreciate all kudos and comments. The wheel may be turning but heyyyyy slow build yoooo. I hope ya’ll be patient, because I love you all! &lt;3 *explodes in glitter*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. No Rest For The Sole Ruler</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Poor Din has fallen sick for a day, but what’s stopping him from his sense of duty?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AWWW YEAAAH!!! So who has watched “The Bad Batch?” Apologies for the delay—I’ve actually been meaning to post an update before May the Fourth, but it’s caught up on me and I’ve been busy with some online celebration. xD Sadly just one update this week, but let’s catch up further next week. :P Enjoy the new chapter, loves! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 18: No Rest for The Sole Ruler </b>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">The Mand’alor found himself in the middle of an unrelenting inferno.</p><p class="p1">An entire stretch of forest was ablaze before him, the heat so immense that it <em>singed </em>his skin through the armor. The billowing smoke came in dark, thick tendrils that none of his helmet filter settings could completely shield him from the stifling fumes. He picked up the sickly stench of dozens upon dozens of funeral pyres.</p><p class="p1">Din felt the wisps of dread crawl within his chest, as though the dread itself was a serpent, leisurely making its way to his system. It grew stronger and stronger, like the beating heart of one coming back to life after a moment’s death. It ominously made sense to him.</p><p class="p1">At the peak of this furor, along with the deafening sounds of crackling flames even as they roared some miles away, Din knew that he was reaching the limit of his self-restraint. Like a youngster whose helmet hadn’t grown on them yet, Din’s breathing grew rapid and his fingers fumbled frantically at the base of his beskar skull.</p><p class="p1">But his hands withdrew the moment he realized what he was doing.</p><p class="p1">Were there any eyes on him? If he took his helmet off now, amidst a seemingly empty burning expanse, would that count as keeping his Creed as there was no other living thing in sight?</p><p class="p1">Underneath the helmet, Din closed his eyes, willing the frenzied pounding of his heart to abate, for his quickened breaths to slow down. Like a prayer, as he had always done as a younger man in times of turmoil and he needed the <em>stillness,</em> he counted upwards in Mando’a:</p><p class="p1">
  <em>solus</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>t’ad</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>ehn</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>cuir</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>rayshe’a</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>resol…</em>
</p><p class="p1">The sounds of the dying forest hadn’t faded, neither did the scorching, deathly smell of smoke, now crackling high like a pillar, shooting skyward to the clouds, perhaps even into orbit, as the fires were tremendous and overbearing…</p><p class="p1">Din opened his eyes.</p><p class="p1">What he saw pinned him in place. Wherever he was, he seemed cornered, anyway; he had nowhere to go.</p><p class="p1">A behemoth of a beast stretched on its haunches loomed before him. It had its side turned towards him, but the creature stood tall enough to rival the very pillars of smoke at a distance. By Din’s estimate, the beast was many stories high, perhaps even taller than the skyscrapers he had heard of which filled the bustling cities of the Core Worlds.</p><p class="p1">Its skin was rough with scales like rocky plates on dry, cracked earth. It had an arched back full of spiked ridges, growing in size from neck to rump, and then shrinking once more as these ridges trailed along the length of its well-muscled tail, the tip loaded with a few, ivory-colored spikes.</p><p class="p1">It towered over everything, yet it sat there, very still, seemingly waiting for a command.</p><p class="p1">Din wondered what could possibly hold sway over such a colossal beast, but the creature’s controlled movements belied its palpably wild, even <em>deadly</em> nature.</p><p class="p1">Something moved upon the base of the creature’s neck, which was the highest point of the beast. Din took a moment to adjust his optics and zoom in on that moving object—whatever it was—as close as a helmet devoid of a rangefinder could manage.</p><p class="p1">His blood grew cold, and for certain Din knew that despite the blasting heat all around him, that he was <em>freezing</em> from within.</p><p class="p1">He saw that the object was no droid, or anything of the sort. The appearance of it—him? Her? was all too familiar: a humanoid encased in armor, but with apparent decorative enhancements on its helmet’s design.</p><p class="p1">On top of this gargantuan beast was a Mandalorian.</p><p class="p1">The beast opened its mouth wide; Din saw its dagger-like teeth as well as the sprawling length of its tusks, which held the color of yellowed bone. They spanned many meters apart from its snout, coiled slightly in a familiar manner. Although Din has seen sigils of it practically everywhere as he was raised in the Tribe, he could never had <em>imagined</em> how the sigil would look like in all actuality—</p><p class="p1">The legendary mythosaur.</p><p class="p1">But was this <em>place </em>even reality? Yet the very scene which had unfolded before him matched the tales of his adolescence quite perfectly. An echo of Kuiil’s voice, the old and wise Ugnaught filled the crannies of his mind:</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Your ancestors rode the great mythosaur.</em>
</p><p class="p1">A dissonance took hold of Din. The replica skull which had adorned the archway of the Armorer’s forge was but a fancy miniature in comparison.</p><p class="p1">The skull of this beast alone could well rival the size of a small gunship—perhaps smaller than the Razor Crest, but that was that—the size of the creature’s head challenged all visuals presented to him in all the years he lived as an armor-clad warrior. The mythosaur was <em>far more monstrous</em> than he had ever been led to perceive.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian atop it was considerably dwarfed, like a speck of dust on a bannister. Nonetheless, the armored being—was it human?—sat unperturbed upon the mythosaur’s back, on a special saddle of unknown leather which gleamed crimson against the firelight. The Mandalorian was quietly confident of its <em>control</em> over the creature. He—it seemed male, with how the armor was shaped to fit the body—held his head up unfalteringly.</p><p class="p1">Soon afterwards, the open mouth of the mythosaur drew forth sound, and Din fought the urge to cover his ears over the refuge of his helmet, like a small child.</p><p class="p1">The bone-chilling roar which emerged from the mythosaur’s mouth was deep, rumbling, and so <em>powerful </em>that the air around Din visibly rippled. His own body felt it. If sound were a weapon, he would have been in danger of being shredded apart, if not for his beskar armor. He felt the roar seep into the depths of his gut and into his very marrow.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian upon the mythosaur issued a call—it sounded most certainly <em>inhuman</em>. Din could not tell its species, as the helmet concealed its face. The helmet itself was noteworthy, adorned with horns of about a foot in length, sprouting from spaces where the ears should be, extending upward and curling subtly towards the apex.</p><p class="p1">The thunderous call of the Mandalorian sounded very much like a <em>command</em>—and the mythosaur gained a step forward, then another. The ground shook beneath Din’s feet.</p><p class="p1">As everything continuously moved languidly as though underwater, the Mandalorian turned to face Din, its head tilting downwards—and Din felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew that he could not possibly forget what he <em>saw.</em></p><p class="p1">The front of the Mandalorian’s helmet was fraught with gold and silver carvings in various small symbols, like many elegant nicks of a blade that embellished the iron upon the forehead and chin. The symbols buzzed and convulsed as though alive, and Din was entranced.</p><p class="p1">He was not afraid at all. Any traces of terror which had tried to squirm its way into him immediately vanished.</p><p class="p1">Why did he feel so <em>awed underneath </em>the demon-gaze of this Mandalorian? Its dark visor reflected the flames so it shone with a bristling, bloody amber; the <em>T </em>of it glowed intensely like fully-kindled embers.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian affixed his gaze on Din for a long, torturous moment, yet Din stood there, paralyzed, but no feelings of helplessness overcame him. He stood his ground. The Mandalorian atop the mythosaur kept his own resolve, with the most unflinching of glances.</p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian moved again, breaking the stare. His heavily armored body twisted to face forward as he lifted an arm up, and he called out once more in his inhuman timbre which reverberated far and across the growling fires. Another call answered it, and another, farther and farther away. They were many, and they were <em>everywhere.</em></p><p class="p1">The Mandalorian gripped something in his gloved hand, which he held high above the extent of his horns, and it glistened silver like a piece of lightning in the shape of a staff.</p><p class="p1">That was when Din realized that this Mandalorian rider had, in its possession, and similarly forged in length and shape—</p><p class="p1">It was <em>the beskar spear.</em></p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>*</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"><em>“</em>He has a fever,” said a familiar, warmly mechanical voice at the edge of Din’s hazy wakefulness, “of thirty-eight degrees standard, Miss Naya.” A pause. “Lady Vauss.”</p><p class="p1">He had not quite opened his eyes yet, but Din heard the faintest exasperated scoff from the elder. “But <em>of course </em>he’s running a fever. The man hasn’t stopped working since three days ago, and had just been off serious injury.”</p><p class="p1">Din felt the bubbling heat in his body and the oppressing heaviness that came with illness.</p><p class="p1">This was not at all an uncommon thing. He would fall ill many times after bounty missions which threatened his body’s homeostasis, and all Din did was rest it out for half a day, drink an elixir which Raald had made—small portions, as there was little of it left since his adoptive father had passed,—cool his body down periodically at the fresher, and then he was off and about. It was not much of a deal.</p><p class="p1">Being fussed over a mere fever made Din feel rather <em>too</em> coddled, and he needed to rectify this immediately.</p><p class="p1">The vestiges of the dream were still in his head; it was the most baffling one he’s had in a long time. He let it slide for a while as he opened his eyes—and at once, his head pounded so <em>magnificently</em> that he couldn’t help but whip a hand out and squarely place a palm over his throbbing skull.</p><p class="p1">“Din Djarin is awake,” Beady, the med droid, announced needlessly. “He needs to hydrate with the prescribed quantity of electrolytes.”</p><p class="p1">Din, however, found the strength to croak out, without first looking at the concerned faces of the two women in his quarters: “W-what time is it?” He sounded too weak for his liking.</p><p class="p1">He heard Naya’s voice, as equally exasperated as Zia’s, offer him a reply. “Well, <em>good afternoon</em>, Mand’alor. It’s two hours past noon, and we’ve been wondering if you’ve somehow died in your sleep.”</p><p class="p1">To Mandalorians, joking about death was like picking daisies in a field. It was a light and a serious matter at the same time, so Din simply took his shield of a hand away from his face to meet Naya’s and Zia’s not very pleased looks at him.</p><p class="p1">“I’m quite fine,” he muttered with as much conviction as he could muster, but fell short.</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” Zia responded in her sweetly sardonic voice, “and we are <em>quite </em>convinced, Mand’alor.”</p><p class="p1">Din groaned, slightly flinching at Beady’s presence close to his bedside, and attempted to sit up with great effort on his cot. The lanky-legged med droid was about to assist him but Din held up a hand so forcefully. “Don’t come any closer.”</p><p class="p1">Beady sounded very chastised and melancholy. “I very much apologize, Sir…”</p><p class="p1">Zia took the honors of doing it in Beady’s stead, with surprising gentleness as she lifted Din’s head up with one hand and fluffed the pillows with the other. “The droid seems to offend you so, my dear,” she said quietly, so Naya could scarcely hear it. Din responded with a weak glare, but he relented, settling comfortably in his new lying position.</p><p class="p1">“Drink this,” came Naya’s stern order as she held up a glassful of sterile-smelling stuff for Din to take. It tasted potently of citrus and seawater, and Din had no inclination to sputter out his drink and embarrass himself in front of, he had dismissively supposed—his physician and his governess. “That’s good, Sir. Now, here’s the rest of it, and keep drinking it throughout the day.”</p><p class="p1">Through the clear glass rim, Din eyed two large thermos jugs upon his bedside table, and he was now sure that Naya was <em>punishing</em> him for being too reckless with his health. No doubt it was initially Zia’s idea.</p><p class="p1">When the furnace in his throat had somehow eased up, and his headache subsided a few notches, Zia proceeded to lightly reprimand him—because <em>of course.</em></p><p class="p1">“I hope you understand that you’re to take no meetings today, Mand’alor. We’ll keep lieutenant Woves at bay and Alix Javell a stone’s throw away…”</p><p class="p1">“And prod Aikka and young Emon out with a fifty-foot pole,” Naya finished, and the two women exchanged approving glances, as though they had constructed a very sound battle plan.</p><p class="p1">Din’s demeanor lit up at the young boy’s name. “Did Emon want to see me?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, tut,” said Zia with a click of her tongue. “Not that we know of yet. But you know how the boy’s been very taken with you from the start. Poor child. He believes you, I think, a surrogate father.”</p><p class="p1">For all Din knew from the beginning that Zia was curt in her ways, he wasn’t ready for the elder to shoot him with a bolt of realization. Din felt his face color. His face which had been bare for the world to see, and no longer any secret to these two Mandalorian women who had taken it upon themselves to be stewards of his health and well-being, but… knowing that his suspicions about Emon’s eagerness for his company had been somewhat confirmed—Din didn’t expect his heart to sink.</p><p class="p1">He had never been a parent all his life, not until Grogu, and it would soon appear that the brood would grow if he wasn’t careful.</p><p class="p1">He ignored his sinking heart, but he remained speechless for a minute or so.</p><p class="p1">“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Zia declared in her mildly disappointed tone of an aunt letting a brat out of her sight, “I would need to tend to the nursery while the babysitters are in class. Mand’alor, I take my leave.”</p><p class="p1">For all of Zia’s familiar manner with him when they were alone, she issued a full curtsy to Din, her body still filled with paramount grace of someone many years younger. With a small nod to Naya, which the latter returned, she walked out of his quarters.</p><p class="p1">It was just him and Naya now, and she looked at him over with her usual firm clinicality.</p><p class="p1">“Drink,” she urged some more, and Din obeyed with a sigh as he finished his first glass of hydration. He seldom worried about quenching thirst when he kept his helmet on for most of the day, many days at a time in his old life.</p><p class="p1">A tense silence hung in the air, and Din knew Naya had something dire in mind to inquire him about.</p><p class="p1">“Mand’alor,” she began.</p><p class="p1">And there it was. Din set the glass down the beside table and gave her his full attention.</p><p class="p1">“What is it?” His voice had gained most of its strength back.</p><p class="p1">“I know this may not be a good time to ask, as you do need to rest this fever away, but…” the young woman, her dark, beautiful face suddenly filled with hesitation and worry, found a moment to take a chair and pull it by Din’s bedside. She turned to Beady. “My datapad, if you please.”</p><p class="p1">“Certainly,” said Beady with lively obedience, and handed the device over.</p><p class="p1">Before Naya could begin her reluctant conversation, Din felt he needed to take initiative. “It’s about those scars, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">Naya looked up, perplexed and rather astounded with how he had gotten much ahead of her. Din himself couldn’t place how he may have known, but it was a subject nagging at him ever since his surgery under Naya’s hand, and her observant silence towards him even in good company with Aikka and Alix.</p><p class="p1">Naya, in turn, felt she no longer needed to beat around the bush. “You fought at the Purge, didn’t you?”</p><p class="p1">Din only felt a shrug take over his shoulders. “I’ve supposed every Mandalorian of good fighting form had fought it. Did you think just because my Tribe has been out of touch from the rest of you, that we wouldn’t be among the purged?”</p><p class="p1">He didn’t intend to sound too incisive as to raise Naya’s defensiveness. But the <em>baar’ur</em> took this in stride, to Din’s pleasant surprise.</p><p class="p1">“To be frank, Mand’alor, yes,” she acknowledged, with little resistance. “These wounds,” she continued, presenting the diagrams on her datapad as they beeped and blinked images of his old injury. Din felt a little faint, and not from the fever. Those wounds had very nearly taken his life. “They… they have a story.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s brows furrowed in amused puzzlement, but he knew that she was right. He wasn’t certain, however, why she wanted to hear that story. It was a story she may have heard a thousand times, and his would be no more special than the next soldier’s, with the only distinctive factor of him being Mand’alor.</p><p class="p1">“You’re right about the bacta,” he revealed in a low voice. “There was hardly any left by the time our wounded came in, including myself. The… the baar’ure of another portion of our Tribe had started to dilute the bacta. I was treated in a tank of bacta at less than half its potency. The wounds didn’t heal as cleanly as they could’ve.”</p><p class="p1">His voice choked at the tail end of his statement. Whether Naya had to right to know about this, and she well may have, having been spent to her own near-death treating the wounded during the Purge as he remembered all of their own medics going through it, the memories which came with the procurement of those wounds were still far from welcome.</p><p class="p1">Like some wave of saving grace, however, as he had begun to feel reluctant in pursuing the subject, Van had slipped into the tent, his voice underneath the helmet sporting a helpless urgency. The young man saluted and announced:</p><p class="p1">“Apologies, Sir. But—<em>Alor’ad </em>Graz Woric and uh… <em>verd</em> Erissa Lyl to see you. They say you were expecting them at this hour…”</p><p class="p1">Van had used the titles seemingly as an afterthought, as he wasn’t sure if it were official business or not. Din wondered if Zia had admonished the youth on keeping their Mand’alor undisturbed. Van’s tone was conflicted and the youth turned to him for answers.</p><p class="p1">Naya then turned to him with a telling expression of her own. “Mand’alor…”</p><p class="p1">But Din had a small counter-argument of his own. “Van is right. I<em> am</em> counting on their presence.”</p><p class="p1">Naya scrunched a brow. “I don’t mean to pry, but for what?” With a sigh of her own, she stowed her datapad away, and Beady still looked at both of them with expectant eyes that glowed a dusty yellow.</p><p class="p1">“I guess this is something you’d be wanting to know about. Might as well,” said Din, in sneaky attempts to pacify the woman.</p><p class="p1">“Pardon?” intoned Naya.</p><p class="p1">“You’ll see,” Din said, and he nodded to Van, who got the signal, and his form disappeared outside the tent only to be replaced almost at once with the jovial, bumbling presence of Head Cook Woric and what appeared to be one of his young apprentice cooks at the kitchen, who he supposed was Erissa Lyl. Both were barefaced but respectfully so. They both wore their armor, however.</p><p class="p1">“OH! Oh well, now, Mand’alor! We didn’t know you were indisposed!” Graz face was an immediate mask of concern. He nudged at his charge—Erissa Lyl, a girl of eighteen, a slender willow tree with pale red hair, wearing armor painted partially in muted red and grey. The girl nodded at Graz in understanding.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll return when you’re doing much better…” Graz started, looking a little confused, but Din held up a hand as though to halt the man and the girl from taking another step backward.</p><p class="p1">“No, no. Stay. We’re right on schedule,” Din interrupted despite his weakened state. “I do need to see the records of the kids’ latest physical. Need to know if they’re in great shape enough to handle a good month of advanced training or so.”</p><p class="p1">He knew Naya’s eyes were bearing down on him. Anything concerning the health of those on this settlement, he knew, would immediately be within Naya’s goodwill, and she had been unwittingly roped into it.</p><p class="p1">Graz seemed pleased, and Erissa, without a moment to lose, came forth with her own datapad. She nodded in respectful regard to Naya, and with Graz’s prompting, she handed the Mand’alor the information he needed on the datapad screen. He only had to scroll through the list to inspect it.</p><p class="p1">Din’s and Naya’s heads almost met as they pored over the records, their browsing interspersed with Graz Woric’s vivacious accompanying remarks.</p><p class="p1">“As you can see,” the older man huffed with purpose, “a good lot of them need work, although most of them are healthy. All within their weight range, some within their height range—and well, need to catch up on <em>that </em>department.” Din had a suspicion that Graz meant Emon and some of the kids, which brought a small smile to his pale lips, “Their development is, by some miracle, all on point.”</p><p class="p1">Din fought an urge to release a chuckle which would definitely be gratifying for the old gentlemen, as Graz seemed bent on a bit of self-praise for keeping an iron fist over the children’s nutrition. Even Naya was bobbing her head silently in approval as she surveyed each child’s—and adult’s as well, who all needed the advanced training—primary health status. All with the green light, some with capricious yellow, and none—gratefully, in red, which would mean that they were unfit within the standards Din himself had proposed.</p><p class="p1">“This is good work,” Din appraised softly, and Graz and Erissa beamed. “This is a great initiative, keeping them in the best form as well as you could…”</p><p class="p1">This was where Graz’s bright demeanor dulled a little; nevertheless the Mandalorian cook and captain spoke steadily. “Best we could do, Sir. A promise to their parents… to their families, to keep them in great health. In… well, in <em>fighting form</em>, Sir.”</p><p class="p1">Din’s own expression mirrored Graz’s. It had been very apparent in their parents’ wills, whether they had expected death too soon or not, that the generation after them <em>should</em> be groomed for war, as they all had been, before the Pacifist Era took over concerning which Mandalorian traditions should survive. None of them was on aggression and fighting. None of them was about war.</p><p class="p1">Din made a noise in his throat which very well could have been a small, unbidden sob. He brushed it off quickly. “Thank you, <em>Alor’ad</em> Woric.” He nodded to Erissa. “<em>Verd</em> Lyl.”</p><p class="p1">Erissa’s face flushed pink with the Mand’alor addressing her in rank. “Sir!” she responded along with Graz. Din handed the datapad back to Erissa, and the young girl gave him a snappy salute, an eager one—and Din was unexpectedly stirred to sad affection. These children were asking for a fight they should never had been burdened to carry out, had the Mandalorians collectively made the staunch effort to keep their heads on straight, and be perpetually wary of the enemy—the Empire, and not amongst themselves. A responsibility, indeed, not just for the mainstream ones—everyone. His Tribe. Himself included, and <em>now</em>, most of all.</p><p class="p1">Din sighed.</p><p class="p1">As soon as Graz and Erissa made their exit, and was once again left with Naya and the med droid, buzzing patiently on its heels, the young woman shot him a stare. Din didn’t expect it to be less than amiable, as he’d witnessed Naya’s great interest in Graz’s initiative over the children’s well-being.</p><p class="p1">“Taking work from your sickbed, Mand’alor?” Naya issued rebuke with an unamused frown. “Fine. Just keep drinking that electrolyte tea. I’m washing my hands off you for now, Sir (it was, of course, a joke… perhaps.). You’re as stubborn as they get. Lady Vauss would <em>not</em> be pleased.”</p><p class="p1">Din surprised her with a rare display of his quiet laughter. “Let her,” he said, with a jesting edge to his tone. “She’s not my mother.”</p><p class="p1">Naya raised an eyebrow. While she ceased to press Din on for where they had left off with his story, she made it a slight point that what Din supposed about Zia was, in fact, inaccurate. And Din sighed in feigned helplessness.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">The Mand’alor had never left his bed, as a sly compromise with Zia’s bidding and Naya’s “doctor’s orders,” while he received more guests with the reports he had requested from them the day before he even suspected falling into fever.</p><p class="p1">Axe Woves’ report involved the arrival of the supply run unit, and as Din had asked of him, Axe presented the overall cost of the runs for the past six months. Every month the amount grew. Din surmised that it was due to the youths’ growing appetites, just as they were maturing in stature, journeying to adulthood.</p><p class="p1">“No food, no soldiers,” Axe drawled matter-of-factly, with Din nodding almost absently. “No soldiers, no war. No war… No taking back Mandalore.”</p><p class="p1">“Indeed,” said Din. “Carry on.”</p><p class="p1">Alix, in turn, had provided him with the state of finances, which was, with the lack of a better description—desolate. Alix was no accountant, but he had a hand in the history of the cost of wars which the Mandalorians had started themselves over the centuries, but never found the entire fortitude to end the wars they themselves ignited:</p><p class="p1">“Sixty-seven quintillion credits as of this cycle’s rates,” the younger man informed Din.</p><p class="p1">He and Alix had exchanged understanding glances.</p><p class="p1">“War is <em>damn </em>expensive, isn’t it, Sir?”</p><p class="p1">“Rebuilding is our next challenge,” Din mentioned, a little too casually for his own peace of mind.</p><p class="p1">“That would’ve amounted to about eighty quintillion credits,” Alix said, gulping hard, “on the history of cost over how many times Mandalore and the rest of the sector had to be rebuilt after each major war.”</p><p class="p1">Din ran a hand across his face and over his rumpled, unwashed hair. He would need a good bath after he’s gotten better. This “downtime” was as good as any.</p><p class="p1">“Where do we get our damn credits for <em>this</em> war?”</p><p class="p1">It was an obvious question with no obvious answers.</p><p class="p1">Alix did reveal, in all good-naturedness, that Emon and the kids “had set aside credits from their own pockets to contibute to the cause,” which summed up to a mere two hundred and twelve credits. “They mentioned it was from…. uh… let’s say…. bet money.”</p><p class="p1">Din and Alix exchanged glances again, and Din chose to disregard the last statement and instead remark: “Well, two hundred is very hardly enough.”</p><p class="p1">Alix nodded somberly. “We need a better report on this…”</p><p class="p1">This was where Aikka came in, enumerating the many ways which the more skilled adults of the Clans had begun making their living—not just small bounty hunting jobs, but a dozen other odd jobs which hardly required any mention that they were Mandalorians in need of employment, of which most proceeds would be for supplies.</p><p class="p1">“Well,” Aikka pronounced, quite uneasily, “with this pace, however, we’ll be taking <em>forever.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Din pursed his lips. “We don’t have forever.”</p><p class="p1">Aikka sighed. “Mand’alor, don’t we <em>know</em> it.”</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">By the time the sun had set, and Din had laboriously finished a jug and a half of Naya’s electrolyte concoction, and he was properly exhausted but feeling very much productive—Lady Vauss had decided once more to pay him a visit, and he wasn’t sure how to react—</p><p class="p1">“Brilliant,” Zia stated with a bit of tender snark. “Being <em>clever</em>, are we? It’s not like I could entirely stop you from your work. So how are we feeling?”</p><p class="p1">“Better,” Din replied with much honesty. “And I’ve ticked some important matters off my list.”</p><p class="p1">“A list, you say?” Zia scooted to his bedside, and with a small signal for Din’s permission, she laid the back of her bare hand upon his forehead to gauge his temperature. Din felt likea boy of twelve—but it’s not like he could <em>entirely</em> stop her from mothering him. Din suppressed an inner chortle. “And how long would that list be, Mand’alor? Would that be in metric or in parsecs? So—as you’ve told me. Your temperature’s almost back to normal. Well, then. Good night, my dear.”</p><p class="p1">And off she went, and the night settled in.</p><p class="p1">Din lay in the darkness for a while, and despite his busy day in the midst of illness, he felt restless and in no hurry to fall back into dreams.</p><p class="p1">Which lay upon Din a question of whether the dream he had the night before was a dream at all. He was certain he had dreamt of the planet Mandalore, even as he had never laid eyes on it, during its long-lost lush and glorious days, once filled with forests, seas, and lakes—many of which had fallen to the ancient Mandalorians’ exploitation in conquering their new habitat.</p><p class="p1"><em>Your ancestors rode the great mythosaur</em>, Kuiil’s ragged voice revisited his mind. Din sincerely wished the generous soul of the Ugnaught a prosperous afterlife.</p><p class="p1">He then heard a faint hum from underneath the cot’s mattress.</p><p class="p1">Almost without thought, Din reached underneath, and the bare, calloused skin of his hand made contact with surprisingly warm beskar. He fished out the Darksaber’s hilt from its hiding place, an unlikely one—but he had no idea at all in which manner a relic such as the Darksaber should be placed on a pedestal. Perhaps literally?</p><p class="p1">He couldn’t sleep. His head still spun from the fever, but he sat up slowly, and ignited the Darksaber there and then. Its low song was almost comforting. Its non-light gave off an unusually non-threatening glow.</p><p class="p1">“So you were,” Din whispered to it, feeling silly—and yet he felt it necessary, “built by a Mandalorian Jedi. You’re one of a kind. What makes you think that I deserve you?”</p><p class="p1">He chuckled bitterly. That question sounded like bad luck. He shook his head rapidly, as though dusting his mind off cobwebs. He deactivated the Darksaber, but before he stowed it away once more, he caught the glint of the beskar spear from the corner of his eye. It was solemntly displayed from where he had seen it last, right after waking from the match. It seemed so long ago.</p><p class="p1">He laid his head on the pillows once more, disquieted.</p><p class="p1">Somehow, he knew deep in his being that what he had wasn’t a dream.</p><p class="p1">It was a vision.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*solus, t’ad, ehn, cuir, rayshe’a, resol - one, two, three, four, five, six<br/>*Alor’ad - Captain<br/>*Verd - soldier, private (military rank)</p><p>Uh-huh, yup, yup… Force-sensitive Din is possibly on the rise. :P Also, let’s have a drinking game on how many times Din sighs in this chapter. Just kidding. </p><p>I’m always, always appreciative of kudos, comments, feedback, reviews, blue cookies, etc. so I’m sending this off with gratitude to my readers—the usual suspects (helllooo :D) and the new recruits. Kisses!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Help From Above</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bo-Katan Kryze. That is all. Maybe.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I guess you could say that this was a long-awaited chapter. xD From past feedback, I gathered that a number of you guys wanted a chapter on Bo-Katan, so here’s a bit of special delivery. I hope ya’ll enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <b>Chapter 19: Help From Above</b>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Trask, as it immediately came upon the attention of Bo-Katan, was on lockdown.</p><p class="p1">She had thought it was simply the port—but it had been mandatory ever since it had been operational that off-world ships would dock themselves on the main port of the estuary moon. Any other sort of landing done upon any unsanctioned sites would simply be impounded, and its pilots and passengers <em>heavily </em>questioned.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan had found it relatively uncomplicated the first three times. She had the credits to keep a number of Traskan port officers silent, while they whispered secret avenues to get around the port without as much as a peep from their supervisor.</p><p class="p1">But that was before Trask was crawling with Imperials.</p><p class="p1">Koska was livid, yet there was no one else to blame but themselves. They had been insisting on Trask despite Axe Woves’ words of caution. In fact, Axe had been mildly opposed towards the seizing of the previous Gozanti freighter—as the first one seemed to be enough to get the Imps’ attention, after they had seized their first shipment and first Gozanti a month prior. Now they knew who had been in charge of these shipments: the reports had been channelled through Moff Gideon himself.</p><p class="p1">That despicable, kriffing <em>bastard.</em></p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan had to hand it to the man; despite being captured and presently under the New Republic’s custody, he had possessed all common sense to lay out a contingency plan or two. Alarm bells rang in Bo-Katan’s head when she supposed that the ex-ISB scumbag had known about the specifics of their plan to take back Mandalore. So far, all of the plans were stored in her mind; but that was all moot now, as Din Djarin had become Mand’alor.</p><p class="p1">The overwhelming, almost crippling sense of loss, humiliation, and growing self-resentment had been battling within the former Regent of Mandalore. She felt that her very being had been heaved apart into a thousand, irreparable pieces. All the anger, the determination, the oppressive dark nights of the soul which clung on her tightly may have been all for nothing.</p><p class="p1">They <em>were</em> all for <em>nothing.</em></p><p class="p1">Satine had warned her about the <em>fall</em> that came after <em>hubris</em>, which Bo-Katan had never considered any piece of it besmirching herself, and only saw the irony of it all when it was her sister who fell by the hand of an outsider, run through by the very heirloom which had been deemed precious by those who still adhered to the old warrior ways. To Bo-Katan’s own horror, which died as quickly as it surfaced, she found a simmer of vindication upon Satine’s murder. Her sister had talked of hubris, yet it was Satine who had fallen alongside the doom of an uprising which was indirectly of her making.</p><p class="p1">One should never, <em>ever </em>suppress the true heritage and nature of a Mandalorian. Even of it meant eons of endless bloodlust.</p><p class="p1">Satine Kryze had paid the ultimate price.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan found no strength to mourn—she had no inclination to. It seemed the greater tragedy for one’s heart to be so cold and <em>hardened</em> to the point of tearlessness, even in the most devastating of times. She had been convinced that she had forgotten how it felt to cry. She no longer knew how tears fell from her own cheeks. That vulnerable part of her had vanished a long time ago. She even relished the fact that she no longer held the ability to weep.</p><p class="p1">Now, her own ultimate price was the very loss of what she had been trying all her will and soul to obtain, and to someone she had spat so much scorn at, so much unwarranted hate towards. When Din Djarin claimed his victory after rising from his fourth and final match in the tourney, Bo-Katan felt so thoroughly humbled, and it did not merely feel like a slap hitting her with a new reality. It felt like a cold, ruinous avalanche that had frozen her from deep within.</p><p class="p1">For a moment, even though she was certain that her heart could no longer numb itself any further, on that day of Djarin’s victory over all her ideals and ideologies, she knew that there was still another, even darker pit to fall into. However, unlike her many inner battles before, she made sure to emerge victorious over this one. She conquered most of her ferocious, most sanguinary desire to wrench Djarin of his life.</p><p class="p1">It was a regrettable moment of blindness.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan’s heart had pounded so hard after her defeat in the tourney, she could have embarrassed herself further by falling into a dead faint. Her world turned red and black and there had been nothing else but retribution, and vindication by her own hand.</p><p class="p1">Then, she remembered Pre Vizsla: the man who possessed an obsession with power, in ways that could have sooner rivaled the Empire’s. At that time, it was the Separatists asserting their control over the galaxy, and Pre had sought all means he knew was within his sound judgment to challenge all other sources of opposition—and to the detriment of Death Watch. The Great Split had been only the beginning.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan realized that all her young life and to adulthood—to her now middle-age, and much to her bitterness, that she had unconsciously cemented Pre on such a high pedestal that any thought of challenging his very memory was treason. The former, dead Mand’alor—and all of a few moments before that sacred seat of authority was wrested from him—he had been Bo-Katan’s guiding light for too long. But that light had finally overstayed its welcome, and needed to be cruelly snuffed out.</p><p class="p1">All thanks to that damned foundling of Raald Movan.</p><p class="p1">Raald—an honorable man who had defected from Death Watch after realizing he no longer found nobility in its values. He and that wretched little brother of Pre’s. Defecting was one blow. However, the all-encompassing one was dealt when they defected to the Chilrdren of the Watch.</p><p class="p1">Even most True Mandalorians saw the Children of the Watch too cloistered, too self-absorbed, too wary of outsiders who were in no way among their own sect members.</p><p class="p1">But that was over and done. Raald did his part, and Lir maybe had also fulfilled his, by drawing Raald away from Death Watch to join his merry band. Movan raised a son who seemingly had a destiny, and at that moment, Bo-Katan felt no further enterprise to wrench that away from Din Djarin. And Djarin was right. Enough was enough. She had her days. She had her chances.</p><p class="p1">Now, she lay figuratively in a growing situation of being between a rock and a hard place, and she had brought two unsuspecting mission companions with her. The smaller the numbers, the better, with an exception when Axe had suggested the recruitment of Din Djarin when Koska first sighted him on the Trask landing port.</p><p class="p1">She was currently in a huddle with her faithful fellow Nite Owl, Koska Reeves, and the young Protector named Lann Rau—older sister to Dranne Rau by two years, and niece to the fallen Fenn Rau. As far as Bo-Katan knew, the Protector had lost his life in action. They had lost the hope of any knowledge that he could simply had wanted to <em>remain </em>missing.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan and her three-women team had already landed on the Port with not as much a thought that the Remnant could have fully claimed their hold once more on Trask. Their Lambda-type shuttle had been cleared to dock, and they made their descent with little fuss and question. Getting to the heart of Trask was easy.</p><p class="p1">Getting out could be a problem.</p><p class="p1">Not like it ever mattered initially, but not with the many nooks and crannies of Trask suddenly pouring in and clogged with Imperial troops.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan, Koska, and Lann had not only been on Trask for half a day, and here they were, under danger of arrest and detainment should they fail to devise a foolproof plan of escape.</p><p class="p1">Whoever the intel was, they left this<em> certain</em> part out. However, Bo-Katan had her reservations that the intel may not have only known of the Remnant’s surprise takeover, but of their possible capture as well should they be discovered.</p><p class="p1">This was not good.</p><p class="p1">Axe’s “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” mutterings as he saw them off as the three women had left on the shuttle were in no way stated in jest, even as Axe had the tendency to rattle anyone with off-hand teasing. The lieutenant had a manner of assessing a situation, but right now, he was under the obligation of seeing to Din Djarin’s military needs (but he was willingly cooperative).</p><p class="p1"><em>Dank farrik</em>, Bo-Katan cursed fiercely in her mind.</p><p class="p1">The three Mandalorians were seated among the crates of pungent-smelling foodstuff where no sane Imp would dare wander in—the stench was too terrible for anyone weak-minded to stand. But Bo-Katan and her crew withstood it for the sake of remaining hidden while they thought of an escape plan.</p><p class="p1">Koska, as always, was the brash one. “We could just make a dash for it, m’lady. We’re armed. We’re experienced. Lann is an extraordinary pilot. She’ll damn well dodge every missile those kriffers would launch at us.”</p><p class="p1">Lann simply returned Koska’s supposed praise with a blank glare—if it did not drip with a spittle of worry.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan’s brows creased. Once upon a time, she had total confidence that the Empire was but a fading dot among the larger span of things in the galaxy. Surround them with enough pressure, and they’ll cave in. How could she had miscalculated this one?</p><p class="p1">Perhaps… she had been in her own bubble of self-righteousness to even sense the Empire’s yet-again <em>growing</em> power.</p><p class="p1"><em>Dank kriffing farrik.</em> The Imps were regrouping. Very soon, they’ll outpace the Mandalorians’ own attempts to regroup, and they would then be overrun. Their only chance of regaining Mandalore could be lost forever.</p><p class="p1">“No, Koska,” Bo-Katan finally let her thoughts be known to the younger Mandalorian. <em>There</em>, she saw it—the crestfallen disappointment on Koska’s face. For a short moment, it seemed that Koska would raise a point in protest, but after Lann kept her straight face, and only looked to Bo-Katan for guidance among the three of them, Koska begrudgingly sighed and held her tongue.</p><p class="p1">“We can’t risk capture, that’s for certain,” Bo-Katan continued, as she forced some excruciating calmness into her voice. “I <em>know</em> we’re armed. I <em>know</em> we’re experienced. But we are certainly outnumbered. We can’t risk the entire Mandalorian population of what we have at the moment just because we’re itching for some action…”</p><p class="p1">Koska scoffed. “Forgive me, m’lady… but you’re starting to sound unlike yourself.”</p><p class="p1">Lann’s porcelain-pale face only flinched when she flicked a riposte at Koska. “Lady Kryze is making <em>sense</em>, however you believe her manner of what she sounded like before, Reeves.”</p><p class="p1">Even as Koska wanted to fire back, as the young woman’s face betrayed it, Bo-Katan knew she<em> couldn’t</em>. Clan Rau was a veritably respected one, most especially after Fenn’s selflessness in his efforts during the Purge. A splash of pride befell Bo-Katan towards her young charge. Young Koska was slowly but surely acknowledging her boundaries.</p><p class="p1">The small excuse of a plan they were able to come up with had Lann casually hooded, strolling through the port like a young lady enjoying a summer’s day. Trask’s warm season had been pooling in for a while, and while seasons didn’t exactly exist on the moon, it was quite hot enough for those who wished it to claim for themselves a small strolling holiday—if not for the achingly apparent presence of Stormtroopers milling around.</p><p class="p1">Lann had a simple, old-fashioned kind of beauty which some would admire and in no way suspect of being within the realm of ill intention. To Bo-Katan’s surprise and Koska’s broiling worry, a handful of Stormtroopers even greeted her with a hearty, “Ma’am!” and Lann would nod shyly and unassumingly—a bit of<em> acting </em>on her part—in return. She was by no means a shining gem of prettiness, but she was far from plain. She would attract attention but it was a distracting sort, that one would forget their business after gazing at her, but would at once return to their tasks.</p><p class="p1">When Lann unhurriedly made her inspection of how the port had carried out the Imperial lockdown, Bo-Katan and Koska fidgeted from where they hid. They had cut most channels of communication save for Lann’s, but even then, if the Imps were actively looking for a stray frequency to tap into, and found theirs—it was as good as over.</p><p class="p1">They would have just to wait until she returned.</p><p class="p1">Lann had made sure that the vast recesses of her cloak hid her armor. Her helmet was in a small, silken knapsack slung around her. Bo-Katan felt like rocking on her heels to still her nerves. It was not in her fiber to be rattled so easily, but if Lann herself fell into random inspection in any way, and the young woman needed to break away, and the Imps decided to initiate pursuit…</p><p class="p1">She would not abandon Lann. No one gets left behind. Even as she knew Lann would be willing to sacrifice herself for the cause, just as her uncle had.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan did little to fight the smallest <em>pinch </em>on her heartstrings at Fenn’s memory. All her great warriors—they were as good as gone.</p><p class="p1">“Where the <em>kriffin’ hell </em>is she?” Koska whispered sharply, her arms wound around herself as the younger woman did the rocking-on-heels-to-ease-nerves for Bo-Katan. “It’s been over an damn hour!”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan shook her head. She needed to keep Koska within reason, even as the stench pouring from the crates was grating on her senses. “Patience, Reeves. Just… trust her.”</p><p class="p1">No sooner had she said those words when Lann once more appeared in their midst, her lithe hooded form crouched low to look like someone so debased, the Imps wouldn’t bother an ounce of energy over a pathetic-looking being.</p><p class="p1">“I’m afraid,” were the young woman’s first words before she even made the effort to pull her hood down, “that we’re indeed surrounded, m’lady. I’ve traced a whole fifteen miles and back. They’ve captured Trask. It’s once more Imp territory—<em>just like that.</em> I suppose our intel made <em>their</em> dash for it. We can no longer conduct any sort of business here… for a while.”</p><p class="p1">Koska made an unsavory sound of frustration. Bo-Katan held an expression which fought for a foothold of stoicism.</p><p class="p1">“Our Lambda?” Bo-Katan inquired. It had become their only key to launch off-world in this crucial moment.</p><p class="p1">Some hope returned when Lann reported, “Safe. For now. I can no longer bribe any port sentry, and I daren’t try lest I arouse too much suspicion, but I’ve tried sneaking out some information about the docked ships. Our Lambda still remains un-inspected. The Imps probably hadn’t realized yet that it isn’t one of their own.”</p><p class="p1">“But they <em>will</em>, soon enough—right?” Koska found her voice, laced with the same frustration as her earlier bit of noise.</p><p class="p1">Lann’s voice was taut. “They will.”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan cursed once more under her breath.</p><p class="p1">“We can’t go out without a fight,” Bo-Katan voiced out Koska’s glaring concern, “but we can’t idle for too long, either. Axe and even Djarin would soon notice that we’ve been gone for too long. We can’t risk any of them holding a search party in vain…”</p><p class="p1">Just then, they were ambushed by a sound—</p><p class="p1">“Who goes there?” barked Bo-Katan in a voice so suppressed that it had lost its gravity. She had her hand at once to her blaster, but Koska already had drawn hers out (Lann stood by, watching Bo-Katan’s movements as cue) but had not outright aimed at the sound’s source.</p><p class="p1">A strangely <em>familiar</em> personage stood before the three women, but it was stooped in attempts to seemingly not to raise suspicion. Bo-Katan’s defenses were still active but not belligerent. The sound itself was in no way aggressive, but only softly inquisitive.</p><p class="p1">There, before them, was the Frog Man who Bo-Katan had seen meeting with Djarin and his passenger—who seemed to be Frog Man’s wife (and a vat of unborn children).</p><p class="p1">In Bo-Katan’s knowledge, the Frog Man had been in friendly terms with Axe during their last visit. Axe could ignite some warmth in others if it served a purpose, but Frog Man had remained lukewarm towards Bo-Katan and Koska. She couldn’t blame the Frog Man. She was stone-faced. Koska was no better. It was Frog Man who gave Axe the heads-up that he was to meet a Mandalorian such as themselves who had safely conducted his wife and their eggs-offspring to the estuary moon. Axe tried paying for the information, but the Frog Man refused. He had said that the safe journey of his wife in the hands of their fellow Mandalorian was compensation enough.</p><p class="p1">The Frog Man was once more with them, and he had found them. Bo-Katan could not speak Frog, neither did Koska—</p><p class="p1">“He says that he has a message,” Lann whispered, translating Frog Man’s garbled low and throaty croaking.</p><p class="p1">“What?!” Koska sputtered in a shrill whisper. “Wait a sec, Rau—you understand<em> Frog??</em>”</p><p class="p1">Lann held a hand up as if to say <em>Yes, and I’ll explain later</em>—and kept her attention on Frog Man. She who had not met the Frog Family before.</p><p class="p1">Frog Man gestured stiffly, yet his huge, globular eyes glimmered in animated conversation—perhaps in jubilation that he had <em>finally</em> found someone who understood his species’ language. Frog Man croaked in many inflections and pitches and nodded his head, and Lann, in turn, remained focused on her subject, her lips half-open as though it somehow helped in catching each inflection and pitch for her to translate to Basic.</p><p class="p1">“The message says—<em>make a run for it. We’ll be in orbit and will offer you momentary protection. We’ll leave landing hatch open for you, but won’t take long. Consider, as this is your only chance of escaping in one piece. Best regards.</em>”</p><p class="p1">“WHO’S IT FROM???” Koska breathed through gritted teeth, trying so hard not to scream her ever-growing frustration. In her battle with self-control, Koska sounded like a quietly squealing mouse. Bo-Katan felt an amusement she hadn’t encountered in a long while.</p><p class="p1">Frog Man’s eyes lost some of its vivaciousness. He made another series of low and guttural croaks.</p><p class="p1">Lann nodded in sad understanding.</p><p class="p1">“He can’t say, or else he and his wife may be in danger,” Lann translated.</p><p class="p1">“Then why the hell did he <em>agree</em>—?” Koska began, but was immediately pacified by Bo-Katan. The latter addressed Lann first, and made a facial cue that her next words were to be translated to Frog.</p><p class="p1">“Tell him we thank him for the risk he took,” Bo-Katan started, her eyes firmly on Frog Man, who held her gaze comfortably enough to assure her that he was in no way guilty of any trickery or connivance with the Imps, “and that whoever it was sure damn knew that we could consider the offer.”</p><p class="p1">“This is <em>officially</em> a bad day,” Koska murmured, her face a mask of sullen, deflated ire and disbelief. Yet she paused in anticipation of Lann’s attempt to translate Basic to Frog—</p><p class="p1">—and to everyone’s pleasant surprise, even Frog Man himself—Lann did so with a melodious sort of grace. Koska clicked her tongue as though she had expected something more different and was left wanting.</p><p class="p1">Frog Man seemed to beam again, and he bowed, which Lann returned. Bo-Katan followed suit, and she subtly elbowed Koska, who reluctantly did her bow so half-heartedly. Frog Man shortly spoke in hearty inflections. After a moment, he cautiously made his way out of the smelly corner of crates, and soon disappeared on a bend where a fog had begun to slowly rise.</p><p class="p1">They had been idling long enough to encounter dusk.</p><p class="p1">“So did he say anything else?” Koska asked of Lann in sincere curiosity.</p><p class="p1">Lann thought for a moment. “He said that his source had all reason to expect us, and that we shouldn’t worry. They are not the enemy.”</p><p class="p1">“Bad day to strange night. Well, what do you think, m’lady?” Koska seemed to begin to warm up to the idea. Either way, they were trapped—if their so-called rescuer was in any way just another elaborate sort of snare.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan embraced the all-too familiar pressure of making the call, as she had as much leadership experience as required of any former Death Watch lieutenant. She turned to Lann and spoke firmly but hushedly. “Our Lamdba remains un-investigated?”</p><p class="p1">Lann nodded. “At least, as I know as of this moment. It’s been only fifteen minutes since I last checked, and hopefully nothing has changed in that span of time.”</p><p class="p1">“Good.”</p><p class="p1">Koska’s posture had suddenly gone even more alert, while Lana’s eyes—a nondescript but lively blue, like her uncle’s—shimmered in anticipation.</p><p class="p1">“On my signal,” Bo-Katan declared, voice still low but with more purpose now, “we run for it.”</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">All three Mandalorians crouched into position, with Koska pushing her head up slightly to bring their target path into view, all the way down the dock, past a patrol wall of Stormtroopers, flanked by even more armored grunts. In their quickly-hashed plan, they did not discount the fact that the Imps may have hired some local grunts to do the dirtier work for them should anything get really messy.</p><p class="p1">Lann momentarily broke eye contact from their target area to the skies above.</p><p class="p1">“Not an enemy. <em>Really.</em> They better <em>be there </em>when we make our own dash for it,” she grumbled.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, ladies. On three,” Bo-Katan issued the order softly.</p><p class="p1">Koska had braced herself. Lann was already <em>ready</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Three… two… one!”</p><p class="p1">*</p><p class="p1">“Awww, good evenin’, sweetheart!” a local Trask indolent with crooked teeth tipped his battered hat at Lann.</p><p class="p1">Lann smiled her small, coy smile, but she bid her time.</p><p class="p1">The Trask local seemed blissfully drunk and at the brink of passing out that he didn’t seem to mind when Lann hadn’t as much acknowledged his inebriated semi-advances.</p><p class="p1">“Fine evening, ma’am!” greeted a Stormtrooper, the young male voice bubbling from the modulator.</p><p class="p1">Meanwhile, a thoroughly hooded Bo-Katan and Koska, concealed under cloak and shadow, were weaving their way to the target path some distance off, but within earshot.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Come on</em>, now,” Koska voiced her quiet amusement. “Is Lann really a <em>sweetheart</em>?”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan gave her young charge a swift pat-slap on her pauldron under the cloak. “Be silent and stick to the plan.”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan could certainly feel Koska’s glare on her person. She would dare add, <em>At least that Stormtrooper was polite.</em> Whoever that was underneath the frail, white duraplast armor—poor soul. That kid was on the wrong team.</p><p class="p1">Under the lights of the evening, Lann’s beauty shone even more, and Bo-Katan and Koska couldn’t be <em>more </em>amused. She was a perfect distraction as they had set according to plan. Lann exaggerated her non-Mandalorian walk—if that even made sense. No person who possessed an overly acute eye would immediately figure out that Lann was a trained fighter. Bo-Katan supposed that most who were trained to be covert had that ability. Lann certainly did.</p><p class="p1">And after Lann’s gift of sugary sweet pretense bought Bo-Katan’s and Koska’s way as close to the dock and the Lambda as they possibly could—it would be their turn to be <em>the</em> distraction, and Lann could then slip her way to the Lambda and unground the damn shuttle—and if all goes well, pick them up, ascend full speed to orbit and to their mysterious savior.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan’s throat felt dry. There was no way, however, that this sort of altruism would come without a price, no matter how these people—whoever they were—called themselves <em>not an enemy</em>.</p><p class="p1">But part of the entire war to reclamation had been taking one risk after another. Might as damn well.</p><p class="p1">“Why, what’s a pretty, comely lass like <em>you</em> doing in a place like <em>this</em>?” came a cliche—albeit well-mannered, for all that was just and fair—greeting from a quite elderly Mon Calamari towards Lann’s general direction.</p><p class="p1">Lann was springing her resolve to give them her signal.</p><p class="p1">To the eyes of passersby, Lann was just some nameless young lady dropping something on the ground to pick it up.</p><p class="p1">To Bo-Katan and Koska, that was the signal to raise a<em> bit </em>of hell.</p><p class="p1">Like bandits bolting out of the shadows, like swift pod-racers to the finish line, the former Regent of Mandalore and her aide broke the peace of the night with a slew of sudden—but carefully aimed—blasterfire. No locals were to be harmed—unless they deliberately got in the way.</p><p class="p1">Such was war.</p><p class="p1">The general commotion that erupted was <em>deafening</em>. The hum and whistle of the usual docking port sounds at night were suddenly alive with yells, screams, and frantic orders to investigate the source of the attack as column upon column of Stormtroopers marched their way forward in attempts to surround and overpower their surprise disruptors.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan and Koska, in their attack, had half-revealed themselves. Although cloaked, they were now helmeted and their beskar faces gleamed and sparked with every blast they drew forth from pistols held on both their outstretched arms.</p><p class="p1">“CONTAIN THEM!” came a screaming, modulated command. “They’re MANDALORIANS!”</p><p class="p1">That was when an even bigger <em>pandemonium</em> ensued.</p><p class="p1">It was like every local hired gun had snapped to attention as well—were their bounties on their heads, somehow?—and were now heading their way, their own blasters and rifles drawn and aimed at their direction.</p><p class="p1"><em>Kriff kriff kriff!!!</em> was Bo-Katan’s mantra; even as her aim fell true upon every target she had her sights on, they were finally identified, and the port was now on full alert—and she and Koska can only hold this fight for so long.</p><p class="p1">“Where the hell is Lann and that<em> karking</em> Lambda?” Koska bellowed through the noise of blasterfire. She and Bo-Katan can only alternate looking at their targets and then towards the skies in anticipation for nanoseconds at a time.</p><p class="p1">Like a heralding roar of a frantic beast, the Lambda had come to life—which had split the Stormtroopers’ units attention in two directions.</p><p class="p1">“THAT IS AN UNAUTHORIZED TAKEOFF!” came a shrieking proclamation which reverberated everywhere. “WE REPEAT, THAT IS AN—“</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan could almost hear the disgusting, wet noise her lungs made as she sighed in relief when the Lambda began to open fire at the Imp units surrounding her and Koska.</p><p class="p1">All-out chaos had ensued. If they didn’t get out of this successfully—</p><p class="p1">“Get in,” came Lann’s voice—finally—in the comms within Bo-Katan’s helmet. From the looks of Koska, even in her helmeted state, Bo-Katan knew she had heard that bit of salvation as well.</p><p class="p1">“Right away!”</p><p class="p1">The Lambda’s small air assault had opened a path for her and Koska to make a swift, continuous dive for. The shuttle’s ramp had began to lower.</p><p class="p1">“GO GO GO!!!!”</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan wasn’t certain if that was her own voice urging Koska forward, or the many voices of frenetic Imps and their officers barking desperate orders to cut their route of escape.</p><p class="p1">It was very much a fortunate thing that the Lambda had a rear-mounted cannon blaster. Lann made good use of it to keep any pursuers momentarily at bay as Bo-Katan and Koska raced their way to the ramp.</p><p class="p1">They had both discarded their cloaks—they had already been found out, anyway—to reveal their jetpacks underneath. Bo-Katan and Koska were soon cruising their way quickly on jetpacks to the ramp, deftly avoiding cannon-fire as well as enemy blasterfire as best as they could—</p><p class="p1">—and before a second had passed, maybe three—Bo-katan hardly made count in her breathlessness—she and her fellow Nite Owl had sprawled-landed on the cargo hold mere inches from the wide-open ramp.</p><p class="p1">“We’re in! WE’RE IN!!!” Bo-Katan hollered into the comms for Lann to act upon. “CLOSE THE KRIFFIN’ RAMP!!!”</p><p class="p1">“Roger that,” came Lann’s voice, battling between tense and tranquil.</p><p class="p1">When the ramp was closed and Bo-Katan could hear herself think again, she knew she was clearly hesitating. For a moment, she very much considered ordering Lann to just take to orbit, disregard everything else, and jump to hyperspace as soon as they could.</p><p class="p1">But they could not have found the dire motivation to pull the stunt they just did, if not for the reassurance of their secretive rescuer.</p><p class="p1">Bo-Katan tried to still her hammering heart. <em>Think, Kryze! Make up your damn mind!</em></p><p class="p1">She was about to open her mouth to relay her decision—</p><p class="p1">—but it was sorely interrupted with the echoing rumble of more cannon-fire seemingly just right above them.</p><p class="p1">But the cannon-fire had neither hit nor as much as damaged the Lambda in any way. Whatever that was, it had appeared to continually keep any pursuing starfighters from gaining on them.</p><p class="p1">Koska had slipped her helmet off and had found the presence of mind to run up the cockpit to the co-pilot’s empty seat.</p><p class="p1">“GOOD kriffin’ LORD!!!!” came Koska’s growl and series of swearing which could make the very vagabonds of Mos Eisley blush.</p><p class="p1">“Koska, what is it?” Bo-Katan asked in mounting urgency, moments before she decided against taking her own helmet off. Was their rescuer a fake after all? Were there pursuing TIE Fighters somehow which they would have less than a ball out-manuevering? Worse yet—did the Imps secure starfighters with hyperdrives and the ability to continue pursuit even as they had made it to hyperspace?</p><p class="p1">“Uhhh… you’ll hear it,” was Lann’s more composed response. From the continuous grumbling from her side of the comms, Koska was irritably besides herself.</p><p class="p1">“Hear <em>what?”</em></p><p class="p1">Suddenly, the shuttle rocked lightly as an explosion bloomed from underneath them—and again, not aimed at them at all. However, the explosion sounded so sonorously robust, so <em>satisfyingly</em> rounded and powerful—</p><p class="p1"><em>A seismic charge,</em> Bo-Katan thought, and that was when it somehow dawned on her—</p><p class="p1">“M’lady, our rescuer has identified themselves,” came Lann’s voice. “And you better come see from up here…”</p><p class="p1">“There’s no need,” Bo-Katan replied, with less enthusiasm than Lann had hoped, from Lann’s tiny, almost unheard <em>huh?</em> of confusion buzzing through the comms.</p><p class="p1">“M’lady… he insists,” returned Lann. “He says… he says his name is Boba Fett.”</p><p class="p1">Amidst Koska’s series of muffled swearing in Mando’a, Bo-Katan heard herself sigh, and she woodenly made her way to the cockpit.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, Lann. I know.”</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeap, I think I’ll leave this hanging for now. Well, that didn’t sound quite nice. Lol.</p><p>Sorry I had to use Lann as some kind of cliche bait!! But I myself needed to be amused and experiment if any self-respecting Mandalorian young lady would willingly place herself in a scenario such as this to spring herself and her comrades out of a trap. xD And yeaaahhh another OC. AND another Rau. :P</p><p>BTW, more OC ages:</p><p>Dranne Rau - 26 y/o.<br/>Lann Rau - 28 y/o.</p><p>Thank you every so much for reading, my lovelies! Kudos, comments, more blue cookies, etc. are always welcome and appreciated. &lt;3 Until next chapter! :D</p>
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